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CONTEMPORARY  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 


CONTEMPORARY 
ONE-ACT   PLAYS 

WITH  OUTLINE  STUDY  OF  THE 
ONE-ACT  PLAY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


BY 

B.   ROLAND  LEWIS 

Professor  and  Head  of  the  Department  of  English  in  the  University  of  Utah; 
Author  of  "  The  Technique  of  the  One-Act  Play  " 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


COPTBIQHT,    1922,    BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  plays  in  this  book  are  fully  protected  by  copyright 
and  the  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  are  reserved 
by  the  authors.  Applications  for  their  use  should  be 
made  to  the  respective  authors  or  publishers,  as  designated 


lOAN  STACK 


Z  a^.' 


TO 

THE   MEN   AND    WOMEN 

WHO    SO    KINDLY    HAVE    PERMITTED    ME    TO 

REPRINT  THESE  ONE-ACT   PLAYS 


PREFACE 

This  collection  of  one-act  plays  appears  because  of  an  in- 
creasingly large  demand  for  such  a  volume.  The  plays  have 
been  selected  and  the  Introduction  prepared  to  meet  the  need 
of  the  student  or  teacher  who  desires  to  acquaint  himself  with 
the  one-act  play  as  a  specific  dramatic  form. 

The  plays  included  have  been  selected  with  this  need  in  mind. 
Accordingly,  emphasis  has  been  placed  upK)n  the  wholesome  and 
uplifting  rather  than  upon  the  sordid  and  the  ultra-realistic. 
The  unduly  sentimental,  the  strikingly  melodramatic,  and  the 
play  of  questionable  moral  problems,  has  been  consciously 
avoided.  Comedies,  tragedies,  farces,  and  melodramas  have 
been  included;  but  the  chief  concern  has  been  that  each  play 
should  be  good  dramatic  art. 

The  Dramatic  Analysis  and  Construction  of  the  One-Act  Play, 
which  appears  in  the  Introduction,  also  has  been  prepared  for 
the  student  or  teacher.  This  outline-analysis  and  the  plays 
in  this  volume  are  sufficient  material,  if  carefully  studied,  for 
an  understanding  and  appreciation  of  the  one-act  play. 

B.  Roland  Lewis. 


CONTENTS 

Introduction 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 


The  Twelve-Pound  Look    .    .    .  Sir  Javies  M.  Barrie       17 


Tradition George  Middleton 

The  Exchange AUhea  Thurston 

Sam  Average Perq^  Mackaye  . 


Hyacinth  Halvey Lady  Augusta  Gregory     103 


The  Gazing  Globe Eugene  Pillot  .    . 

The  Boor Anion  Tchekov    . 

The  Last  Straw      Bosworth  Crocker 

Manikin  and  Minikin Alfred  Kreymborg 

White  Dresses Paul  Greene    .    . 

Moonshine Arthur  Hopkins 

Modesty Paul  Hervieu  .    . 

The  Deacon's  Hat Jeannette  Marks 

Where  but  in  America    ....  Oscar  M.  Wolff  . 

A  Dollar David  Pinski  .    . 

The  Diabolical  Circle    ....  Beulah  Bornstead 

The  Far-Away  Princess  ....  Hermann  Sudermann 

The  Stronger August  Strindberg  . 

ix 


43 
61 

85 


139 
155 
175 
197 
215 
239 
^55 
273 
301 
321 
343 
365 
393 


X  CONTENTS 

BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

PACK 

Collections  of  One-Act  Plats     405 

Lists  of  One-Act  Plays 406 

Bibliography  of  Reference  on  the  One-Act  Play   .  408 

BlBLIOGIL^PHY   on   HoW   TO   PRODUCE   Pl.\YS 409 


CONTEMPORARY  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  AS  A  SPECIFIC  DRAMATIC 

TYPE 

The  one-act  play  is  with  us  and  is  asking  for  consideration. 
It  is  challenging  our  attention  whether  we  will  or  no.  In  both 
Europe  and  America  it  is  one  of  the  conspicuous  factors  in  pres- 
ent-day dramatic  activity.  Theatre  managers,  stage  designers, 
actors,  plaj'wrights,  and  professors  in  universities  recognize  its 
presence  as  a  vital  force.  Professional  theatre  folk  and  ama- 
teurs especially  are  devoting  zestful  energy  both  to  the  writing 
and  to  the  producing  of  this  shorter  form  of  drama. 

The  one-act  play  is  claiming  recognition  as  a  specific  dramatic 
type.  It  may  be  said  that,  as  an  art  form,  it  has  achieved  that 
distinction.  The  short  story,  as  every  one  knows,  was  once  an 
embryo  and  an  experiment;  but  few  nowadays  would  care  to 
hold  that  it  has  not  developed  into  a  specific  and  worthy  literary 
form.  This  shorter  form  of  prose  fiction  was  once  apologetic, 
and  that  not  so  many  years  ago;  but  it  has  come  into  its  own  and 
now  is  recognized  as  a  distinct  type  of  prose  narrative.  The 
one-act  play,  like  the  short  story,  also  has  come  into  its  own. 
No  longer  is  it  wholly  an  experiment.  Indeed,  it  is  succeeding 
in  high  places.  The  one-act  play  is  taking  its  place  among  the 
significant  types  of  dramatic  and  literary  expression. 

Artistically  and  technically  considered,  the  one-act  play  is 
quite  as  much  a  distinctive  dramatic  problem  as  the  longer  play. 
In  writing  either,  the  playwright  aims  so  to  handle  his  material 
that  he  will  get  his  central  intent  to  his  audience  and  will  pro- 
voke their  interest  and  emotional  response  thereto.     Both  aim 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

at  a  singleness  of  impression  and  dramatic  eflFect;  both  aim  to  be 
a  high  order  of  art.  Yet  since  the  one  is  shorter  and  more  con- 
densed, it  follows  that  the  dramaturgy  of  the  one  is  somewhat 
diflPerent  from  that  of  the  other,  just  as  the  technic  of  the 
cameo  is  different  from  the  technic  of  the  full-sized  statue. 
The  one-act  play  must,  as  it  were,  be  presented  at  a  "single  set- 
ting": it  must  start  quickly  at  the  beginning  with  certain  defi- 
nite dramatic  elements  and  pass  rapidly  and  effectively  to  a  cru- 
cial movement  without  halt  or  digression.  A  careful  analysis  of 
any  one  of  the  plays  in  this  volume,  like  Anton  Tchekov's  The 
Boor,  or  like  Oscar  M.  Wolff's  Where  But  in  America,  will  reveal 
this  fact.  The  shorter  form  of  drama,  like  the  short  story,  has 
a  technical  method  characteristically  its  own. 

It  is  a  truth  that  the  one-act  play  is  well  made  or  it  is  nothing 
at  all.  A  careful  analysis  of  Sir  James  M.  Barrie's  The  Twelve- 
Pound  Look,  Paul  Hervieu's  Modesty,  Althea  Thurston's  The 
Exchange,  will  reveal  that  these  representative  one-act  plays  are 
well  made  and  are  real  bits  of  dramatic  art.  A  good  one-act 
play  is  not  a  mere  cheap  mechanical  tour  deforce;  mechanics  and 
artistry  it  has,  of  course,  but  it  is  also  a  high  order  of  art  product. 
A  delicately  finished  cameo  is  quite  as  much  a  work  of  art  as  is 
the  larger  statue;  both  have  mechanics  and  design  in  their  struc- 
ture, but  those  of  the  cameo  are  more  deft  and  more  highly  spe- 
cialized than  those  of  the  statue,  because  the  work  of  the  former 
is  done  under  far  more  restricted  conditions.  The  one-act  play 
at  its  best  is  cunningly  wrought. 

Naturally,  the  material  of  the  one-act  play  is  a  bit  episodical. 
It  deals  with  but  a  single  situation.  A  study  of  the  plays  in  this 
volume  will  reveal  that  no  whole  life's  story  can  be  treated  ade- 
quately in  the  short  play,  and  that  no  complexity  of  plot  can  be 
employed.  Unlike  the  longer  play,  the  shorter  form  of  drama 
shows  not  the  whole  man — except  by  passing  hint — but  a  sig- 
nificant moment  or  experience,  a  significant  character-trait. 
However  vividly  this  chosen  moment  may  be  interpreted — and 


INTRODUCTION  5 

the  one-act  play  must  be  vivid — much  will  still  be  left  to  the 
imagination.  It  is  the  aim  of  the  one-act  form  to  trace  the 
causal  relations  of  but  one  circumstance  so  that  the  circumstance 
may  be  intensified.  The  writer  of  the  one-act  play  deliberately 
isolates  so  that  he  may  throw  the  strong  flashlight  more  search- 
ingly  on  some  one  significant  event,  on  some  fundamental  ele- 
ment of  character,  on  some  moving  emotion.  He  presents  in  a 
vigorous,  compressed,  and  suggestive  way  a  simplification  and 
idealization  of  a  particular  part  or  aspect  of  life.  Often  he  opens 
but  a  momentary  little  vista  of  life,  but  it  is  so  clear-cut  and  so 
significant  that  a  w  hole  life  is  often  revealed  thereby. 

The  student  must  not  think  that  because  the  one-act  play 
deals  with  but  one  crisis  or  but  one  simplified  situation,  it  is 
therefore  weak  and  inconsequential.  On  the  contrary,  since  only 
one  event  or  situation  can  be  emphasized,  it  follows  that  the 
writer  is  obliged  to  choose  the  one  determining  crisis  which  makes 
or  mars  the  supreme  struggle  of  a  soul,  the  one  great  change  or 
turning-point  or  end  of  a  life  history.  Often  such  moments  are 
the  really  vital  material  for  drama;  nothing  affords  so  much  op- 
portunity for  striking  analysis,  for  emotional  stress,  for  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  whole  character  sketched  in  the  act  of  meeting  its 
test. 

The  one-act  play  is  a  vital  literary  product.  To  segregate  a 
bit  of  significant  experience  and  to  present  a  finished  picture  of 
its  aspects  and  effects;  to  dissect  a  motive  so  searchingly  and 
skilfully  that  its  very  roots  are  laid  bare;  to  detach  a  single  figure 
from  a  dramatic  sequence  and  portray  the  essence  of  its  charac- 
ter; to  bring  a  series  of  actions  into  the  clear  light  of  day  in  a 
sudden  and  brief  human  crisis;  to  tell  a  significant  story  briefly 
and  with  suggestion;  to  portray  the  humor  of  a  person  or  an 
incident,  or  in  a  trice  to  reveal  the  touch  of  tragedy  resting  like 
the  finger  of  fate  on  an  experience  or  on  a  character — these  are 
some  of  the  possibilities  of  the  one-act  play  when  handled  by  a 
master  dramatist. 


6  INTRODUCTION 

THE  PROPER  APPROACH  TO  THE  STUDY  OF  THE 
ONE-ACT  PLAY 

To  read  a  one-act  play  merely  to  get  its  story  is  not  in  itself 
an  exercise  of  any  extraordinary  value.  This  sort  of  approach 
to  any  form  of  literature  does  not  require  much  appreciation  of 
literary  art  nor  much  intelligence.  Almost  any  normal-minded 
person  can  read  a  play  for  its  story  with  but  little  expenditure 
of  mental  eflFort.  Proper  appreciation  of  a  one-act  play  requires 
more  than  a  casual  reading  whose  chief  aim  is  no  more  than 
getting  the  plot. 

If  the  shorter  form  of  drama  is  to  be  appreciated  properly  as  a 
real  literary  form,  it  must  be  approached  from  the  point  of 
view  of  its  artistry  and  technic.  This  means  that  the  student 
should  understand  its  organic  construction  and  technic,  just 
as  he  should  understand  the  organic  construction  and  technic 
of  a  short  story,  a  ballad,  or  a  perfect  sonnet,  if  he  is  to  appre- 
ciate them  properly. 

The  student  should  know  what  the  dramatist  intends  to  get 
across  the  footlights  to  his  audience,  and  should  be  able  to  detect 
how  he  accomplishes  the  desired  result. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  the  author  urges  a  study  of  con- 
struction at  the  expense  of  the  human  values  in  a  play.  On  the 
contrary,  such  a  study  is  but  the  means  whereby  the  human 
values  are  made  the  more  manifest.  Surely  no  one  would  argue 
that  the  less  one  knows  about  the  technic  of  music  the  better 
able  is  one  to  appreciate  music.  Indeed,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that,  within  reasonable  limits,  no  one  can  really  appreciate  a 
one-act  play  if  one  does  not  know  at  least  the  fundamentals  of 
its  dramatic  organization. 

In  fact,  students  of  the  one-act  play  recognize  in  its  construc- 
tive regularity  not  a  hindrance  to  its  beauty  but  a  genuine  power. 
This  but  lends  to  it  the  charm  of  perfection.  The  sonnet  and  the 
cameo  are  admirable,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  their  superior 


INTRODUCTION  7 

workmanship.  The  one-act  play  does  not  lose  by  any  reason  of 
its  technical  requirements;  indeed,  this  is  one  of  its  greatest 
assets.  And  the  student  who  will  take  the  pains  to  familiarize 
himself  with  the  organic  construction  of  a  typical  one-act  play 
will  have  gone  a  long  way  in  arriving  at  a  proper  appreciation  of 
this  shorter  form  of  drama. 

DRA]VL\TIC  ANALYSIS  AND  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE 
ONE-ACT  PLAY 

I.    The  Theme  of  the  One-Act  Play 

The  one-act  play,  like  the  short  story,  is  a  work  of  literary  art, 
and  must  be  approached  as  such.  Just  like  a  painting  or  a  poem 
or  a  fine  public  building,  the  one-act  play  aims  at  making  a  5m- 
gleness  of  effect  upon  the  reader  or  observer.  One  does  not  judge 
a  statue,  or  a  poem,  or  any  other  work  of  art,  by  the  appearance 
of  any  isolated  part  of  it,  but  by  the  sum-total  effect  of  the  whole. 
The  fundamental  aim  of  a  one-act  play  is  that  it  shall  so  present 
a  singleness  of  effect  to  the  reader  or  to  the  assembled  group  who 
have  gathered  to  witness  a  performance  of  it,  that  the  reader  or 
observer  will  be  provoked  to  emotional  response  thereto. 

Thus,  when  a  student  reads  a  play  like  George  MiddIeton*s 
Tradition,  he  is  made  to  see  and  feel  that  the  life  of  a  daughter 
has  been  handicapped  and  the  longings  of  a  mother  smothered 
because  of  the  conventional  narrowness  of  an  otherwise  loving 
father.  This  is  the  singleness  of  effect  of  the  play;  this  is  its 
theme.  This  is  precisely  what  the  author  of  the  play  wished  his 
reader  or  observer  to  see  and  feel.  When  one  reads  Bosworth 
Crocker's  The  Last  Straw,  one  feels  that  a  reasonably  good  and 
worthy  man,  because  of  his  sensitiveness  to  criticism,  has  been 
driven  to  despair  and  to  a  tragic  end  by  the  malicious  gossip  of 
neighbors.  One's  sense  of  pity  at  his  misfortune  is  aroused. 
This  is  what  the  author  intended  to  do.  This  idea  and  effect  is 
the  theme  of  the  play.     And  when  the  student  reads  Paul  Her- 


8  INTRODUCTION 

vieu's  Modesty,  he  feels  that  a  woman,  even  though  she  may  lead 
herself  into  thinking  she  prefers  brutal  frankness,  instinctively 
likes  affection  and  even  flattery.  This  is  the  effect  produced  by 
the  play;  this  is  its  intent;  this  is  its  theme. 

In  approaching  a  one-act  play,  then,  the  very  first  considera- 
tion should  be  to  determine  what  the  purpose  and  intent  of  the 
play  is — to  determine  its  theme.  This  demands  that  the  play 
be  read  through  complete  at  one  sitting  and  that  no  premature 
conclusions  be  drawn.  Once  the  play  is  read,  it  is  well  to  sub- 
ject the  play  to  certain  leading  questions.  What  has  the  author 
intended  that  his  reader  or  hearer  shall  understand,  think,  or 
feel  ^  What  is  the  play  about  ?  AVhat  is  its  object  and  purpose  ? 
Is  it  a  precept  or  an  observation  found  in  life,  or  is  it  a  bit  of 
fancy .-^  Is  it  artificially  didactic  and  moralizing?  With  what 
fundamental  element  in  human  nature  does  it  have  to  do :  Love  ? 
Patriotism  ?  Fear  ?  Egotism  and  self-centredness  ?  Sacrifice  ? 
Faithfulness .?     Or  what  ? 

A  word  of  warning  should  be  given.  The  student  should  not 
get  the  idea  that  by  theme  is  meant  the  moral  of  the  play.  A 
good  play  may  be  thoroughly  moral  without  its  descending  to 
commonplace  moralizing.  Good  plays  concern  themselves  wuth 
the  presentation  of  the  fundamentals  of  life  rather  than  a  creed 
of  morals,  theories,  and  propagandas.  Art  concerns  itself  with 
larger  things  than  didactic  and  argumentative  moralizing. 

II.    The  Technic  of  the  One-Act  Play 

Once  the  student  satisfies  himself  as  to  the  singleness  of  effect 
or  theme  of  the  play,  he  will  do  well  to  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
seeing  just  how  the  dramatist  has  achieved  this  effect.  He 
should  keep  in  mind  that  the  playwright  is  a  skilled  workman; 
that  he  has  predetermined  for  himself  just  what  he  wishes  his 
audience  to  think,  feel,  or  understand,  and  has  marshalled  all  his 
materials  to  that  end.  The  way  by  which  he  accomplishes  that 
end  is  his  technic.     Technic  is  but  the  practical  method  by 


INTRODUCTION  9 

which  an  artist  can  most  effectively  convey  his  message  to  his 
public.  In  a  play  the  materials  that  the  dramatist  uses  to  this 
end  are  character,  plot,  dialogue,  and  stage  direction.  If  he  is 
skilled  he  will  use  these  elements  in  such  a  way  that  the  result 
will  be  an  artistic  whole,  a  singleness  of  effect,  an  organized  unit 
that  will  exemplify  and  express  his  theme. 

A.  The  Characters  in  the  One- Act  Play. — Generally 
speaking,  drama  grows  out  of  character.  Farce,  melodrama,  and 
extravaganza  usually  consist  of  situation  rather  than  of  charac- 
ter. In  any  event,  the  student  should  avail  himself  of  every 
means  to  understand  the  characters  in  the  play  under  discussion. 
His  real  appreciation  of  the  play  will  be  in  direct  ratio  almost  to 
his  understanding  of  the  persons  in  the  drama.  Any  attention 
given  to  this  end  will  be  energy  well  spent.  The  student  should 
get  into  the  very  heart  of  the  characters,  as  it  were. 

Thus,  Adonijah,  in  Beulah  Bornstead's  The  Diabolical  Circle, 
is  a  narrow,  self-centred,  Puritan  egotist  who  has  little  about  his 
personality  to  appeal  to  the  romantic  and  vivacious  Betty. 
Lady  Sims,  in  Sir  James  M.  Barrie's  The  Twelve-Pound  Look,  is  a 
woman  who  really  is  pathetic  in  her  longing  for  some  human 
independence  in  the  presence  of  her  self-centred  husband,  "Sir'* 
Harry  Sims.  And  Manikin  and  Minikin,  in  Alfred  Kreym- 
borg's  Manikin  and  Minikin,  are  conventionalized  puppets  rep- 
resenting the  light  yet  half-serious  bickerings,  jealousies,  and 
quarrellings  of  human  nature. 

The  student  will  do  well  to  characterize  the  dramatis  personcB 
deliberately  and  specifically.  He  should  not  now  value  himself 
for  working  fast;  for  things  done  in  a  hurry  usually  lack  depth. 
He  must  not  be  content  with  vague  and  thin  generalities.  In 
analyzing  a  character  it  might  be  well  to  apply  some  specific 
questions  similar  to  the  following:  Just  what  is  the  elemental 
human  quality  in  the  character  ?  Loving  ?  Trusting  ?  Egotis- 
tic? Superstitious?  Revengeful?  Treacherous?  Selfish?  Dis- 
contented ?    Optimistic  ?    Romantic  ?    Or  what  ?    How  does  the 


10  INTRODUCTION 

dramatist  characterize  them:  By  action?  By  dialogue?  By 
spirit  of  likes  and  dislikes  ?  By  racial  trait  ?  By  religion  ?  By 
peculiarity  of  manner,  speech,  appearance  ?  Are  the  characters 
really  dramatic :  are  they  impelled  to  strong  emotional  reaction 
upon  each  other  and  upon  situation?  Do  they  provoke  one's 
dramatic  sympathy  ?  Do  they  make  one  feel  their  own  point  of 
view  and  their  own  motives  for  conduct  ? 

B.  The  Plot  of  the  One- Act  Play. — ^Plot  and  character 
are  integrally  interlinked.  Plot  is  not  merely  story  taken  from 
every-day  life,  where  seldom  do  events  occur  in  a  series  of  closely 
following  minor  crucial  moments  leading  to  a  climax.  The  dram- 
atist so  constructs  his  material  that  there  is  a  sequential  and 
causal  interplay  of  dramatic  forces,  ending  in  some  major  crisis 
or  crucial  moment.  Plot  may  be  said  to  be  the  framework  and 
constructed  story  by  which  a  dramatist  exemplifies  his  theme. 
It  does  not  exist  for  its  own  end,  but  is  one  of  the  funda- 
mental means  whereby  the  playwright  gets  his  singleness  of 
effect,  or  theme,  to  his  reader  or  hearer.  From  the  story  ma- 
terial at  his  disposal  the  playwright  constructs  his  plot  to  this 
very  end. 

Careful  attention  should  be  given  to  the  plot.  The  student 
should  question  it  carefully.  Do  the  plot  materials  seem  to  have 
been  taken  from  actual  life  ?  Or  do  they  seem  to  be  invented  ? 
Is  the  plot  well  suited  to  exemplifying  the  theme  ?  Reconstruct 
the  story  out  of  which  the  plot  may  have  been  built.  Since  the 
plot  of  a  one-act  play  is  highly  simplified,  determine  whether 
there  are  any  complexities,  any  irrelevancies,  any  digressions. 
Does  the  plot  have  a  well-defined  beginning,  middle,  and  end  ? 

1.  The  Beginning  of  the  One- Act  Play. — ^Having  but  a  relatively 
short  time  at  its  disposal,  usually  about  thirty  minutes  and  sel- 
dom more  than  forty-five  minutes,  the  beginning  of  a  one-act 
play  is  very  short.  It  is  characterized  by  condensation,  com- 
pactness, and  brevity.  Seldom  is  the  beginning  more  than  a 
half -page  in  length;  often  the  play  is  got  under  way  in  two  or 


INTRODUCTION  11 

three  speeches.  The  student  will  do  well  to  practise  to  the  end 
that  he  will  recognize  instantly  when  the  dramatic  background 
of  a  one-act  play  has  been  laid. 

Whatever  else  may  characterize  the  beginning,  it  must  be  dra- 
matically effective.  Instantly  it  must  catch  the  powers  of  per- 
ception by  making  them  aware  of  the  initial  situation  out  of 
which  the  subsequent  dramatic  action  will  develop.  A  good  be- 
ginning makes  one  feel  that  suddenly  he  has  come  face  to  face 
with  a  situation  which  cannot  be  solved  without  an  interplay  of 
dramatic  forces  to  a  given  final  result. 

Thus,  when  one  reads  Althea  Thurston's  The  Exchange,  one  is 
made  suddenly  to  feel  that  human  beings  are  discontent  w4th 
their  shortcommgs  and  possessed  qualities,  and  that  they  always 
feel  that  they  would  be  happier  if  they  possessed  something  other 
than  what  they  have.  The  Judge,  who  handles  the  cases  as 
they  come  in  for  exchange,  is  disgusted  with  the  vanities  of 
humankind,  and  is  ready  to  clear  his  hands  of  the  whole  matter. 
Here  is  a  situation;  it  is  the  beginning  of  the  play.  In  the  begin- 
ning of  Lady  Gregory's  Hyacinth  Ilalvey  one  is  brought  suddenly 
to  the  realization  that  Hyacinth  Halvey  instinctively  rebels 
against  the  highly  colored  and  artificially  created  good  name 
that  has  been  unwittingly  superimposed  upon  him.  This  situa- 
tion, suddenly  presented,  is  the  beginning  of  the  play.  Out  of 
this  initial  situation  the  subsequent  dramatic  action  evolves. 

Is  the  beginning  too  short?  Too  long?  Does  it  make  the 
initial  dramatic  situation  clear  ?  How  has  the  playwright  made 
it  clear  and  effective  ?  Just  where  is  the  end  of  the  beginning  ? 
Although  the  beginning  and  the  subsequent  plot  development 
are  well  blended  together,  so  that  there  is  no  halting  where  the 
beginning  ends,  usually  one  can  detect  where  the  one  ends  and 
the  other  begins.  It  is  a  good  idea,  for  the  purpose  of  develop- 
ing a  sense  of  the  organic  structure  of  the  one-act  play,  to  draw 
a  line  across  the  page  of  the  play,  just  where  the  one  ends  and 
the  other  begins. 


12  INTRODUCTION 

The  setting  of  the  play  is  a  part  of  the  beginning.  Is  the  set- 
ting realistic  ?  Romantic  ?  Fantastic  or  bizarre  ?  Are  the  de- 
tails of  stage  design,  properties,  and  especially  the  atmosphere 
and  color  scheme  in  harmony  with  the  tone  of  the  play  itself? 
Is  the  setting  really  an  organic  part  of  the  play  or  is  it  something 
apart  from  it?  Note  that  the  setting  is  usually  written  in  the 
third  person,  present  tense,  and  in  italics. 

2.  The  Middle  of  the  One- Act  Play. — The  middle  of  a  one-act 
play  is  concerned  primarily  with  the  main  crucial  moment  or 
climax  and  the  dramatic  movement  that  from  the  beginning  leads 
up  to  it.  A  good  play  consists  of  a  series  of  minor  crises  leading 
up  to  a  major  crisis  or  crucial  moment.  It  is  for  this  crucial 
moment  that  the  play  exists ;  it  is  for  this  big  scene  precisely  that 
the  play  has  been  written.  Indeed,  the  play  succeeds  or  fails  as 
the  crucial  moment  is  strongly  dramatic  or  flabbily  weak.  This 
is  the  part  of  the  play  that  is  strongest  in  dramatic  tension, 
strongest  in  emotional  functioning. 

A  study  of  Sir  James  M.  Barrie's  The  Twelve-Pound  Look 
shows  that  the  crucial  moment  comes  at  the  point  where  "Sm" 
Harry  Sims  in  his  self-centred  egotism  discovers  that  his  wife's. 
Lady  Sims's,  heart-longing  could  easily  be  satisfied  if  she  were 
permitted  no  other  freedom  than  merely  operating  a  tj'pewriter. 
In  Althea  Thurston's  The  Exchange  the  crucial  moment  comes 
when  the  several  characters,  who  unwittingly  had  exchanged  one 
ill  for  a  worse  one,  find  that  they  can  never  re-exchange,  and 
that  they  must  endure  the  torments  and  displeasure  of  the  newly 
acquired  ill  throughout  life. 

Just  where  is  the  crucial  moment  or  climax  in  the  play  under 
consideration  ?  Determine  the  several  minor  crises  that  lead  up 
to  the  crucial  moment.  Is  the  crucial  moment  delayed  too  long 
for  good  dramatic  efifect  ?  Or  is  it  reached  too  soon,  so  that  the 
play  is  too  short  and  too  sudden  in  reaching  the  climax  ?  Does 
it  make  one  feel  that  some  vital  result  has  been  attained  in  the 
plot  movement  ?     Is  it  characterized  by  strong  situation  and  by 


INTRODUCTION  13 

strong  emotional  reactions  of  character  on  character  or  of  char- 
acter on  situation  ? 

For  purposes  of  impressing  a  sense  of  the  organic  structure  of 
a  one-act  play,  it  is  a  good  plan  to  draw  a  horizontal  line  across 
the  page  at  the  close  of  the  crucial  moment.  Keep  in  mind, 
however,  that  the  crucial  moment  is  not  the  end  of  the  play  as  it 
appears  on  the  printed  page  or  as  it  is  acted  on  the  stage. 

3.  The  End  of  the  One-Act  Play. — The  end  of  the  one-act  play 
is  an  important  consideration.  Too  often  it  is  entirely  lost  sight 
of.  It  is  the  part  that  frequently  makes  or  mars  a  play.  When 
the  crucial  moment  or  climax  has  been  reached,  the  plot  action 
of  the  play  is  completed,  but  the  play  is  not  yet  completed.  The 
play  needs  yet  to  be  rounded  out  into  an  artistic  and  dramatic 
whole.  In  life  the  actual  crisis  in  human  affairs  is  not  often  our 
chiefest  interest,  but  the  reaction  of  characters  immediately 
after  the  crisis  has  occurred.  Thus,  in  a  play,  the  emotional  re- 
action of  the  characters  on  the  crucial  moment  and  the  more  or 
less  sudden  readjustment  between  characters  after  the  crucial 
moment  must  be  presented.  For  this  very  purpose  the  end  of 
the  one-act  play  is  constructed.  The  end  is  of  need  very  short 
— usually  even  shorter  than  the  beginning.  Usually  the  end 
consists  of  but  a  speech  or  two,  or  sometimes  only  of  pantomime 
that  more  effectively  expresses  the  emotional  reactions  of  the 
characters  on  the  crucial  moment  than  dialogue. 

Thus,  in  Sir  James  M.  Barrie's  The  Twelve-Pound  Look,  the 
end  consists  of  but  pantomime,  in  which  "Sir"  Harry  expresses 
his  emotional  reaction  upon  his  wife's  longing  for  the  human 
liberty  that  even  the  operating  of  a  typewriter  would  provide 
her.  The  end  of  Bosworth  Crocker's  The  Last  Straw  comes  im- 
mediately after  the  pistol-shot  is  heard  in  the  adjoining  room 
and  Mrs.  Bauer's  voice  is  heard:  "Fritz!  Fritz!  Speak  to 
me !  Look  at  me,  Fritz  !  You  didn't  do  it,  Fritz  !  I  know  you 
didn't  do  it ! "  etc. 

Is  the  end  of  the  play  under  consideration  in  terms  of  dialogue  ? 


14  INTRODUCTION 

In  pantomime  ?    Or  both  ?    Is  it  too  long  ?    Too  short  ?    Is  it 
dramatic  ?     Is  it  conclusive  and  satisfying  ? 

C.  Dialogue  of  the  One-Act  Play. — Dialogue,  like  plot 
and  characterization,  is  another  means  whereby  the  theme  of  the 
play  is  got  to  the  reader  or  audience.  Good  dramatic  dialogue  is 
constructed  to  this  very  end.  It  is  not  the  commonplace,  ram- 
bling, uncertain,  and  realistic  question  and  answer  of  every-day 
life.  Usually  good  dramatic  dialogue  is  crisp,  direct,  condensed. 
It  is  the  substance  but  not  the  form  of  ordinary  conversation. 
Its  chiefest  characteristic  is  spontaneity. 

The  highest  type  of  dramatic  dialogue  is  that  which  expresses  the 
ideas  and  emotions  of  characters  at  the  points  of  highest  emotional 
functioning.  It  will  readily  be  seen,  then,  that  not  all  dialogue 
in  a  play  is  necessarily  dramatic.  In  truth,  the  best  dramatic 
dialogue  occurs  in  conjunction  with  the  series  of  minor  crises 
and  the  crucial  moment  that  go  to  make  up  the  dramatic  move- 
ment of  the  play.  Often  there  is  much  dialogue  in  a  play  that 
essentially  is  not  dramatic  at  all. 

In  analyzing  dramatic  dialogue  it  is  well  to  inquire  whether  in 
the  play  it  serves  (1)  to  express  the  ideas  and  emotions  of  char- 
acters at  points  of  highest  emotional  functioning,  (2)  to  advance 
the  plot,  (3)  to  reveal  character,  or  (4)  what.  Is  it  brief,  clear, 
direct,  spontaneous?  Or  is  it  careless,  loose,  insipid.'*  Wit, 
repartee.'*     Didactic,  moralizing?     Satirical,  cynical? 

D.  Stage-Business  and  Stage-Direction  in  the  One-Act 
Play. — The  stage-business  and  stage-direction,  usually  printed 
in  italics,  of  a  play  are  an  essential  part  of  a  drama.  They  must 
not  be  ignored  in  either  reading  or  staging  a  play.  The  novel  or 
short  story  generally  uses  narration  and  description  to  achieve 
its  desired  result;  a  play,  on  the  contrary,  uses  dialogue  and  con- 
crete objective  pantomime  that  may  be  seen  readily  with  the 
eye.  A  play  is  not  a  story  narrated  in  chronological  order  of 
events,  but  it  is  a  story  so  handled  and  so  constructed  that  it  can 
be  acted  on  a  stage  by  actors  before  an  audience.     It  is  a  series 


INTRODUCTION  15 

of  minor  crises  leading  to  a  major  crisis,  presented  to  a  reader  or 
to  an  audience  by  characters,  dialogue,  and  stage-business  and 
pantomime.  For  purposes  of  indicating  the  pantomimic  action 
of  the  play,  the  dramatist  resorts  to  stage-business  and  stage- 
direction. 

Does  the  stage-direction  aid  in  making  (1)  the  dialogue,  (2)  the 
plot,  (3)  the  dramatic  action,  or  (4)  the  character  more  clear? 
Does  it  shorten  the  play  ?  Does  it  express  idea,  emotion,  or  situ- 
ations more  effectively  than  could  dialogue,  if  it  were  used  ? 

And,  finally,  do  not  judge  any  play  until  all  the  evidence  is  in, 
imtil  you  have  thoroughly  mastered  every  detail  and  have  fully 
conceived  the  author's  idea  and  purpose.  It  is  not  a  question 
whether  you  would  have  selected  such  a  theme  or  whether  you 
would  have  handled  it  in  the  same  way  in  which  the  author  did; 
but  the  point  is  does  the  author  in  his  way  make  his  theme  clear 
to  you.  The  author  has  conceived  a  dramatic  problem  in  his 
oion  mind  and  has  set  it  forth  in  his  own  way.  The  question  is, 
does  he  make  you  see  his  result  and  his  method  ? 

Do  you  like  the  play  ?  Or  do  you  not  like  it  ?  State  your  rea- 
son in  either  case.  Is  it  because  of  the  author  ?  Is  it  because 
of  the  theme  ?  Is  it  because  of  the  technic — the  way  he  gets  his 
intent  to  his  reader  or  audience  ?  Is  it  because  of  your  own  likes 
or  dislikes;  preconceived  notions  or  prejudices  ?  Is  it  because  of 
the  acting?  Of  the  staging  or  setting?  Does  it  uplift  or  de- 
press ?     Does  it  provoke  you  to  emotional  functioning  ? 

"Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  expressed, 
'Tis  his  at  last  who  says  it  best." 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

BY 

SIR  JAMES  M.  BARRIE 


The  Twelve-Poimd  Look  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  Charles  Scrib- 
ncr's  Sons,  the  publisher  in  America  of  the  works  of  Sir  James  M.  Barrie. 
For  permission  to  perform,  address  the  publisher. 


SIR  JAMES  M.  BARRIE 

Sir  James  M.  Barrie  is  rated  as  the  foremost  English  drama- 
tist of  the  day;  and  his  plays,  taken  together,  make  the  most 
significant  contribution  to  EngHsh  drama  since  Sheridan.  Prac- 
tically his  entire  life  has  been  given  to  the  writing  of  novels  and 
plays,  many  of  the  latter  having  their  heroines  conceived  espe- 
cially for  Maude  Adams,  one  of  America's  greatest  actresses. 
He  was  born  in  Kirriemuir,  Scotland,  in  18G0.  He  received  his 
education  at  Dumfries  and  Edinburgh  University.  His  first 
work  in  journalism  and  letters  was  done  at  Nottingham,  but 
soon  he  took  up  his  work  in  London,  where  he  now  resides. 

Sir  James  M.  Barrie's  literary  labors  have  been  very  fruitful. 
His  The  Professor's  Love  Story,  The  Little  Minister,  Quality 
Street,  The  Admirable  Crichton,  Peter  Pan,  What  Every  Woman 
Knoics,  and  Alice  Sit-hy-the-Fire  are  well  known  to  every  one. 

In  191-1  there  appeared  a  volume  of  one-act  plays.  Half  Hours, 
the  most  important  of  which  is  The  Twelve-Pound  Look.  And 
in  1918  appeared  a  volume.  Echoes  of  the  War,  the  most  impor- 
tant one-act  play  therein  being  The  Old  Lady  Shoivs  Her  Medals. 

Barrie  is  a  great  playwright  because  he  is  so  thoroughly  human. 
All  the  little  whimsicalities,  sentiments,  little  loves,  and  heart- 
longings  of  human  beings  are  ever  present  in  his  plays.  He  is 
no  reformer,  no  propagandist.  He  appeals  to  the  emotions 
rather  than  to  the  intellect.  He  continues  the  romantic  tradi- 
tion in  English  drama  and  gives  us  plays  that  are  wholesome, 
tender,  and  human.  And  with  all  this,  he  has  the  added  saving 
grace  of  a  most  absorbing  humor. 

While  Barrie  is  not  a  devotee  of  the  well-made  play,  his  The 
Twelve-Pound  Look  is  one  of  the  most  nearly  perfect  one-act 
plays  of  contemporary  drama.  His  interest  in  human  person- 
alities is  not  more  manifest  in  any  of  his  plays  than  in  Lady 
Sims  and  "Sir"  Harry  Sims  in  this  play. 


CHARACTERS 

"Sir"  Harry  Sims 
Lady  Sims 
Kate 

TOMBES 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK* 

//  quite  convenient  {as  they  say  about  checks)  you  are  to  conceive 
that  the  scene  is  laid  in  your  own  house,  and  that  Harry  Sims 
is  you.  Perhaps  the  ornamentation  of  the  hou^e  is  a  trifle 
ostentatious,  but  if  you  cavil  at  that  we  are  willing  to  redeco- 
rate :  you  dont  get  out  of  being  Harry  Sevis  on  a  mere  matter 
of  plush  and  dados.  It  pleases  us  to  make  him  a  city  man, 
but  {rather  than  lose  you)  he  can  be  turned  with  a  scrape  of  the 
pen  into  a  K.C.,  fashionable  doctor.  Secretary  of  State,  or  what 
you  will.  We  conceive  him  of  a  pleasant  rotundity  with  a 
thick  red  neck,  but  ice  shall  waive  that  point  if  you  know  him 
to  be  thin. 

It  is  that  day  in  your  career  when  everything  icent  lorong  just  when 
everything  seemed  to  be  superlatively  right. 

In  Harry's  case  it  was  a  woman  who  did  the  mischief.  She  came 
to  him  in  his  great  hour  and  told  him  she  did  not  admire  him. 
Of  course  he  turned  her  out  of  the  house  and  was  soon  himself 
again,  but  it  spoiled  the  morning  for  him.  This  is  the  subject 
of  the  play,  and  quite  enough  too. 

Harry  is  to  receive  the  honor  of  hiighthood  in  a  few  days,  and  we 
discover  him  in  the  sumptuous  ^'snuggery"  of  his  home  in 
Kensington  {or  is  it  Westminster?),  rehearsing  the  ceremony 
with  his  wife.  They  have  been  at  it  all  the  morning,  a  pleasing 
occupation.  Mrs.  Sims  {as  we  may  call  her  for  the  last  time, 
cw  it  tcere,  and  strictly  as  a  good-natured  joke)  is  wearing  her 
presentation  gown,  and  personates  the  august  one  who  is  about 
to  dub  her  Harry  knight.  She  is  seated  regally.  Her  jewelled 
shoulders  proclaim  aloud  her  husband's  generosity.     She  rmist 

*  Copyright,  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     All  rights  reserved. 

21 


22  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

be  an  extraordinarily  proud  and  happy  woman,  yet  she  has  a 
drawn  face  and  shrinking  ways,  as  if  there  were  some  one  near 
her  of  whom  she  is  afraid.  She  claps  her  hands,  as  the  signal 
to  Harry.  He  enters  bowing,  and  with  a  graceful  swerve  of 
the  leg.  lie  is  only  partly  in  costume,  the  sword  and  the  real 
stockings  not  having  arrived  yet.  With  a  gliding  motion  that 
is  only  delayed  while  one  leg  makes  up  on  the  other,  he  reaches 
his  wife,  and,  going  on  one  knee,  raises  her  hand  superbly  to 
his  lips.  She  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  with  a  paper-knife  and 
says  huskily  :  "Rise,  Sir  Harry."  He  rises,  bows,  and  glides 
about  the  room,  going  on  his  knees  to  various  articles  of  furni- 
ture, and  rises  from  each  a  knight.  It  is  a  radiant  domestic 
scene,  and  Harry  is  as  dignified  as  if  he  knew  that  royalty 
was  rehearsing  it  at  the  other  end. 

Sir  Harry.     [Complacently.]     Did  that  seem  all  right,  eh? 

Lady  Sims.     [Much  relieved.]     I  think  perfect. 

Sir  Harry.     But  was  it  dignified  ? 

Lady  Sevis.  Oh,  very.  And  it  will  be  still  more  so  when  you 
have  the  sword. 

Sir  Harry.  The  sword  will  lend  it  an  air.  There  are  really 
the  five  moments — [suiting  the  action  to  the  word] — the  glide — the 
dip — the  kiss — the  tap — and  you  back  out  a  knight.  It's  short, 
but  it's  a  very  beautiful  ceremony.  [Kindly.]  Anything  you 
can  suggest? 

Lady  Sims.  No — oh,  no.  [Nervously,  seeing  him  paiise  to  kiss 
the  tassel  of  a  cushion.]  You  don't  think  you  have  practised  till 
you  know  what  to  do  almost  too  well  ? 

[He  ha^  been  in  a  blissful  temper,  but  such  niggling  criticism 
would  try  any  man. 

Sm  Harry.  I  do  not.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  Wait  till  your 
opinion  is  asked  for. 

Lady  Sims.  [Abashed.]  I'm  sorry,  Harry.  [A  perfect  butler 
appears  and  presents  a  card.]     * '  The  Flora  Typewriting  Agency." 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  23 

Sir  Harry.     Ah,  yes.     I  telephoned  them  to  send  some  one. 
A  woman,  I  suppose,  Tombes  ? 
ToMBES.     Yes,  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  Show  her  in  here.  [lie  has  very  lately  become  a 
stickler  for  etiquette.]  And,  Tombes,  strictly  speaking,  you  know, 
I  am  not  Sir  Harry  till  Thursday. 

Tombes.     Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  it  is  such  a  satisfaction  to  us. 
Sir  Harry.     [Good-naturedly.]     Ah,  they  like  it  down-stairs, 
do  they  ? 

Tombes.  [Unbending.]  Especially  the  females,  Sir  Harry. 
Sir  Harry.  Exactly.  You  can  show  her  in,  Tombes.  [The 
hutler  departs  on  his  mighty  task.]  You  can  tell  the  woman  what 
she  is  wanted  for,  Emmy,  while  I  change.  [He  is  too  modest  to 
boast  about  himself,  and  prefers  to  keep  a  ivife  in  the  house  for  that 
purpose.]  You  can  tell  her  the  sort  of  things  about  me  that  will 
come  better  from  you.  [Smiling  happily.]  You  heard  what 
Tombes  said:  "Especially  the  females."  And  he  is  right.  Suc- 
cess! The  women  like  it  even  better  than  the  men.  And 
rightly.  For  they  share.  You  share,  Lady  Sims.  Not  a  woman 
will  see  that  gown  without  being  sick  with  envy  of  it.  I  know 
them.  Have  all  our  lady  friends  in  to  see  it.  It  will  make  them 
ill  for  a  week. 

[These  sentiments  carry  him  off  light-heartedly,  and  presently 
the  disturbing  element  is  shown  in.  She  is  a  mere  typist^ 
dressed  in  uncommonly  good  taste,  but  at  contemptibly 
smxill  expense,  and  she  is  carrying  her  typewriter  in  a 
friendly  way  rather  than  as  a  badge  of  slavery,  as  of  course 
it  is.  Her  eye  is  clear  ;  and  in  odd  contrast  to  Lady  Sims, 
she  is  self-reliant  and  serene. 
Kate.  [Respectfully,  but  she  should  have  waited  to  be  spoken 
to.]     Good  morning,  madam. 

Lady  Sims.  [In  her  nervous  way,  and  scarcely  noticing  that  ike 
typist  is  a  little  too  ready  with  her  tongue.]  Good  morning.  [As 
a  first  impression  she  rather  likes  the  woman,  and  the  woman. 


24  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

though  it  is  scarcely  ivorth  mentioning,  rather  likes  her.  Lady  Sims 
has  a  maid  for  buttoning  and  unbuttoning  her,  and  probably  another 
for  waiting  on  the  maid,  and  she  gazes  with  a  little  envy  perhaps  at 
a  woman  who  does  things  for  herself.]  Is  that  the  typewriting 
machine  ? 

Kate.  [Who  is  getting  it  ready  for  use.]  Yes.  [Not  *'  Yes, 
madam,"'  as  it  ought  to  be.]  I  suppose  if  I  am  to  work  here  I  may 
take  this  off.     I  get  on  better  without  it. 

[She  is  referring  to  her  hat. 

Lady  Sims.  Certainly.  [But  the  hat  is  already  of.]  I  ought 
to  apologize  for  my  gown.  I  am  to  be  presented  this  week,  and 
I  was  trying  it  on. 

[Her  tone  is  not  really  apologetic.  She  is  rather  clinging  to 
the  glory  of  her  gown,  wistfully,  as  if  not  absolutely  cer- 
tain, you  know,  that  it  is  a  glory. 

Kate.     It  is  beautiful,  if  I  may  presume  to  say  so. 

[She  frankly  admires  it.  She  probably  has  a  best  and  a  sec- 
ond best  of  her  own;  that  sort  of  thing. 

Lady  Sims.  [With  a  flush  of  pride  in  the  gown.]  Yes,  it  is  very 
beautiful.     [The  beauty  of  it  gives  her  courage.]     Sit  down,  please. 

Kate.  [The  sort  of  woman  who  would  have  sat  down  in  any 
case.]  I  suppose  it  is  some  copying  you  want  done  ?  I  got  no 
particulars.     I  was  told  to  come  to  this  address,  but  that  was  all. 

Lady  Sims.  [Almost  with  the  humility  of  a  servant.]  Oh,  it  is 
not  work  for  me,  it  is  for  my  husband,  and  what  he  needs  is  not 
exactly  copying.  [Swelling,  for  she  is  proud  of  Harey.]  He 
wants  a  number  of  letters  answered — hundreds  of  them — letters 
and  telegrams  of  congratulation. 

Kate.     [As  if  it  were  all  in  the  day*s  work.]    Yes  ? 

Lady  Sims.  [Remembering  that  Harry  expats  every  wife  to  do 
her  duty.]  My  husband  is  a  remarkable  man.  He  is  about  to 
be  knighted.  [Pause,  but  Kate  does  not  fall  to  tJie  floor.]  He  is 
to  be  knighted  for  his  services  to — [on  reflection] — for  his  services. 
[She  is  conscious  that  she  is  not  doing  Harry  justice.]  He  can  ex- 
plain it  so  much  better  than  I  can. 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  25 

Kate.  [In  her  businesslike  way.]  And  I  am  to  answer  the 
congratulations  ? 

Lady  Sims.     [Afraid  that  it  will  be  a  hard  task.]     Yes. 

Kate.     [Blithely.]     It  is  work  I  have  had  some  experience  of. 

[She  proceeds  to  type. 

Lady  Sims.  But  you  can't  begin  till  you  know  what  he  wants 
I  to  say. 

Kate.     Only  a  specimen  letter.     Won't  it  be  the  usual  thing.? 

Lady  Sims.  [To  whom  this  is  a  new  idea.]  Is  there  a  usual 
thing? 

K.\TE.     Oh,  yes. 

[She  continues  to  type,  and  Lady  Sims,  half -mesmerized, 
gazes  at  her  nimble  fingers.  The  useless  woman  watches 
the  useful  one,  and  she  sighs,  she  could  not  tell  why. 

Lady  Sims.  How  quickly  you  do  it !  It  must  be  delightful 
to  be  able  to  do  something,  and  to  do  it  well. 

KLA.TE.     [Thankfully.]     Yes,  it  is  delightful. 

Lady  Sims.  [Again  remembering  the  source  of  all  her  greatness.] 
But,  excuse  me,  I  don't  think  that  will  be  any  use.  My  husband 
wants  me  to  explain  to  you  that  his  is  an  exceptional  case.  He 
did  not  try  to  get  this  honor  in  any  way.  It  was  a  complete  sur- 
prise to  him 

K1\TE.  [Who  is  a  practical  Kate  and  no  dealer  in  sarcasm.] 
That  is  w^hat  I  hav^e  written. 

Lady  Sims.  [In  whom  sarcasm  would  meet  a  dead  wall.]  But 
how  could  you  know  ? 

Kate.     I  only  guessed. 

Lady  Sims.     Is  that  the  usual  thing? 

Kate.     Oh,  yes. 

Lady  Sims.     They  don't  try  to  get  it .? 

Kate.  I  don't  know.  That  is  what  we  are  told  to  say  in  the 
letters. 

[To  her  at  present  the  only  important  thing  about  the  letters 
is  that  they  are  ten  shillings  the  hundred. 

Lady  Sims.     [Returning  to  surer  ground.]     I  should  explain 


26  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

that  my  husband  is  not  a  man  who  cares  for  honors.     So  long  as 

he  does  his  duty 

Kate.     Yes,  I  have  been  putting  that  in. 

Lady  Sims.     Have  you?     But  he  particularly  wants  it  to  be 

known  that  he  would  have  declined  a  title  were  it  not 

Ka.te.     I  have  got  it  here. 
Lady  Sims.     What  have  you  got  ? 

Ka.te.     [Reading.]     "Indeed,  I  would  have  asked  to  be  al- 
lowed to  decline  had  it  not  been  that  I  want  to  please  my  wife." 
Lady  Sims.     [Heavily.]     But  how  could  you  know  it  was  that  ? 
Kate.     Is  it  ? 

Lady  Sims.     [WhOy  after  all,  is  the  one  with  the  right  to  ask  qties- 
tions.]     Do  they  all  accept  it  for  that  reason  ? 

Kate.     That  is  what  we  are  told  to  say  in  the  letters. 
Lady  Sims.     [Thoughtlessly.]     It  is  quite  as  if  you  knew  my 
husband. 

Kate.     I  assure  you,  I  don't  even  know  his  name. 
Lady  Sims.     [Suddenly  showing  that  she  knows  him.]    Oh,  he 
wouldn't  like  that ! 

[And  it  is  here  that  Harry  re-enters  in  his  city  garmentSy 
looking  so  gay,  feeling  so  jolly,  that  we  bleed  for  him. 
However,  the  annoying  Katherine  is  to  get  a  shock  also. 
Lady  Sims.     This  is  the  lady,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     [Shooting  his  cuffs.]    Yes,  yes.     Good  morning, 
my  dear. 

[Then  they  see  each  other,  and  their  mouths  open,  but  not  for 
wards.     After  the  first  surprise  Kate  seems  to  find  some 
humor  in  the  situation,  but  Harry  lowers  like  a  thunder- 
cloud. 
Lady  Sims.     [Who  has  seen  nothing.]    I  have  been  trying  to 

explain  to  her 

Sir  Harry.     Eh — ^what  ?     [He  controls  himself.]    Leave  it  to 
me,  Emmy;  I'll  attend  to  her. 

[Lady  Sims  goes,  with  a  dread  fear  thai  somehow  she  has 
vexed  her  lord,  and  then  Harry  attends  to  the  intruder. 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  27 

Sir  Harry.     [With  concentrated  scorn.]     You  ! 

Kate.     [As  if  agreeing  u-ith  him.]     Yes,  it's  funny. 

Sir  Harry.     The  shamelessness  of  your  daring  to  come  here. 

Kate.  Believe  me,  it  is  not  less  a  surprise  to  me  than  it  is  to 
you.  I  was  sent  here  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business.  I  was 
given  only  the  number  of  the  house.     I  was  not  told  the  name. 

Sir  Harry.  [Withering  her.]  The  ordinary  way  of  business  ! 
This  is  what  you  have  fallen  to — a  typist ! 

Kate.     [Unicithered.]     Think  of  it ! 

Sir  Harry.     After  going  through  worse  straits,  I'll  be  bounds 

Kate.     [With  some  grim  memories.]     Much  worse  straits, 

SiR  Harry.     [Alas,  laughing  coarsely.]     My  congratulations  I 

K.\TE.     Thank  you,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  [Who  is  annoyed,  as  any  man  would  he,  not  to  find 
her  abject.]     Eh  ?     What  was  that  you  called  me,  madam  ? 

K1\TE.     Isn't  it  Harry  ?     On  my  soul,  I  almost  forget. 

Sir  Harry.  It  isn't  Harry  to  you.  My  name  is  Sims,  if  you 
please. 

Kate.  Yes,  I  had  not  forgotten  that.  It  was  my  name,  too, 
you  see. 

Sir  Harry.  [In  his  best  manner.]  It  was  your  name  till  you 
forfeited  the  right  to  bear  it. 

Kate.     Exactly. 

Sir  Harry.  [Gloatiiig.]  I  was  furious  to  find  you  here,  but 
on  second  thoughts  it  pleases  me.  [From  the  depths  of  his  moral 
nature.]     There  is  a  grim  justice  in  this. 

Kate.     [Sympathetically.]     Tell  me  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Do  you  know  what  you  were  brought  here  to  do  ? 

Kate.  I  have  just  been  learning.  You  have  been  made  a 
knight,  and  I  was  summoned  to  answer  the  messages  of  congratu- 
lation. 

Sir  Harry.  That's  it,  that's  it.  You  come  on  this  day  as 
my  servant ! 

Kate.     I,  who  might  have  been  Lady  Sims. 

Sir  Harry.     And  you  are  her  typist  instead.     And  she  has 


28  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

four  men-servants.     Oh,  I  am  glad  you  saw  her  in  her  presenta- 
tion gown. 

Kate.     I  wonder  if  she  would  let  me  do  her  washing,  Sir 
Harry  ?  [Her  want  of  taste  disgusts  him. 

Sir  Harry.     [With  dignity .]     You  can  go.     The  mere  thought 
that  only  a  few  flights  of  stairs  separates  such  as  you  from  my 

innocent  children 

[He  will  never  know  why  a  new  light  has  come  into  her  face. 

Kate.     [Slowly.]     You  have  children .? 

Sir  Harry.     [Inflated.]    Two. 

[He  wonders  why  she  is  so  long  in  answering. 

Kate.     [Resorting  to  impertinence.]     Such  a  nice  number. 

Sir  Harry.     [With  an  extra  turn  of  the  screw.]     Both  boys. 

Kate.     Successful   in   everything.     Are   they   like   you.   Sir 
Harry  ? 

Sir  Harry.     [Expanding.]     They  are  very  like  me. 

Kate.     That's  nice. 

[Even  on  such  a  subject  as  this  she  can  be  ribald. 

Sir  Harry.     Will  you  please  to  go. 

Kate.     Heigho  !     What  shall  I  say  to  my  employer  ? 

Sir  Harry.     That  is  no  affair  of  mine. 

Kate.     ^\liat  will  you  say  to  Lady  Sims  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I  flatter  myself  that  whatever  I  say,  Lady  Sims 
will  accept  without  comment. 

[She  smiles,  heaven  knows  why,  unless  her  next  remark  ex- 
plains it. 

Kate.     Still  the  same  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Kate.     Only  that  you  have  the  old  confidence  in  your  pro- 
found knowledge  of  the  sex. 

Sir  Harry.     [Beginning  to  think  as  little  of  her  intellect  as  of 
her  morals.]     I  suppose  I  know  my  wife. 

Kate.     [Hopelessly  dense.]     I  suppose  so.     I  was  only  remem- 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  29 

bering  that  you  used  to  think  you  knew  her  in  the  days  when  I 
was  tlie  lady.  [He  is  merely  wasting  his  time  on  her,  and  he  indi- 
cates the  door.  She  is  not  sufficiently  the  lady  to  retire  worsted.] 
Well,  good-by,  Sir  Harry.  Won't  you  ring,  and  the  four  men- 
servants  will  show  me  out  ?  [But  he  hesitates. 

Sir  Harry.  [In  spite  of  himself.]  As  you  arc  here,  there  is 
something  I  want  to  get  out  of  you.  [Wishing  he  could  ask  it  less 
eagerly.]     Tell  me,  who  was  the  man  ? 

[The  strange  woman — it  is  evident  now  that  she  has  always 
been  strange  to  him, — smiles  tolerantly. 

Kate.     You  never  found  out  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I  could  never  be  sure. 

Kate.     [Reflectively.]     I  thought  that  would  worry  you. 

Sir  Harry.     [Sneering.]     It's  plain  that  he  soon  left  you. 

Kate.     Very  soon. 

Sir  Harry.  As  I  could  have  told  you.  [But  still  she  surveys 
him  u^h  the  smile  of  Monna  Lisa.  The  badgered  man  has  to  en- 
treat.] Who  was  he.^  It  was  fourteen  years  ago,  and  cannot 
matter  to  any  of  us  now.     Kate,  tell  me  who  he  was  ^ 

[It  is  his  first  youthful  moment,  and  perhaps  because  of  that 
she  does  not  wish  to  hurt  him. 

Kate.     [Shaking  a  motherly  head.]     Better  not  ask. 

Sir  Harry.     I  do  ask.     Tell  me. 

Kate.     It  is  kinder  not  to  tell  you. 

Sir  Harry.  [Violently.]  Then,  by  James,  it  was  one  of  my 
own  pals.  W'as  it  Bernard  Roche.'*  [She  shakes  her  head.]  It 
may  have  been  some  one  who  comes  to  my  house  still. 

Kate.  I  think  not.  [Reflecting.]  Fourteen  years!  You 
found  my  letter  that  night  when  you  went  home  ? 

Sir  Harry.     [Impatient.]     Yes. 

Kate.  I  propped  it  against  the  decanters.  I  thought  you 
would  be  sure  to  see  it  there.  It  was  a  room  not  unlike  this,  and 
the  furniture  was  arranged  in  the  same  attractive  way.  How  it 
all  comes  back  to  me.     Don't  you  see  me,  Harry,  in  hat  and 


30  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

cloak,  putting  the  letter  there,  taking  a  last  look  round,  and  then 
stealing  out  into  the  night  to  meet 

Sir  Harry.     \Miom? 

Kate.  Him.  Hours  pass,  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  tick- 
tack  of  the  clock,  and  then  about  midnight  you  return  alone. 
You  take 

Sir  Henry.     [Grnfflij.]     I  wasn't  alone. 

Kate.  [The  picture  spoiled.]  No?  Oh.  [Plaintively.]  Here 
have  I  all  these  years  been  conceiving  it  wrongly.  [She  studies 
his  face.]     I  believe  something  interesting  happened. 

Sir  Harry.     [Growling.]     Something  confoundedly  annoying. 

Kate.     [Coaxing.]     Do  tell  me. 

Sir  Harry.  We  won't  go  into  that.  AMio  was  the  man.^ 
Surely  a  husband  has  a  right  to  know  with  whom  his  wife  bolted. 

Kate.  [Who  is  detestably  ready  icith  her  tongue.]  Surely  the 
wife  has  a  right  to  know  how  he  took  it.  [The  woman's  love  of 
bargaining  comes  to  her  aid.]  A  fair  exchange.  You  tell  me 
what  happened,  and  I  will  tell  you  who  he  was. 

Sir  Harry.     You  will  .^     Very  well. 

[It  is  the  first  point  on  which  they  have  agreed,  and,  forgetting 
himself,  he  takes  a  place  beside  her  on  the  fire-seat.  He  is 
thinking  only  of  what  he  is  to  tell  her,  but  she,  womanlike, 
is  conscious  of  their  proximity. 

K.\te.  [Tastelessly.]  Quite  like  old  times.  [He  moves  away 
from  her  indignantly.]     Go  on,  Harry. 

Sir  H,\rry.  [Who  has  a  manful  shrinking  from  saying  any- 
thing that  is  to  his  disadvantage.]  Well,  as  you  know,  I  was  din- 
ing at  the  club  that  night. 

Kate.     Yes. 

Sir  Harry.  Jack  Lamb  drove  me  home.  Mabbett  Green 
was  with  us,  and  I  asked  them  to  come  in  for  a  few  minutes. 

Kate.  Jack  Lamb,  Mabbett  Green  .^  I  think  I  remember 
them.     Jack  was  in  Parliament. 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  31 

Sir  Harry.  No,  that  was  Mabbett.  They  came  into  the 
house  with  me  and — [with  sudden  horror] — was  it  him  ? 

Ka-TE.     [Bewildered.]     \^^lo  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Mabbett.^ 

KL\TE.     What  ? 

Sir  Harry.     The  man  ? 

Kate.  What  man.?  [Understanding.]  Oh,  no.  I  thought 
you  said  he  came  into  the  house  with  you. 

Sir  Harry.     It  might  have  been  a  blind. 

Kate.     Well,  it  wasn't.     Go  on. 

Sir  Harry.  They  came  in  to  finish  a  talk  we  had  been  hav- 
ing at  the  club. 

KL\TE.     An  interesting  talk,  evidently. 

Sir  Harry.  The  papers  had  been  full  that  evening  of  the 
elopement  of  some  countess  woman  w  ith  a  fiddler.  What  was 
her  name  ? 

IZate.     Does  it  matter  .'* 

Sir  Harry.  No.  [Thus  ends  the  countess.]  We  had  been 
discussing  the  thing  and — [he  pulls  a  wry  face] — and  I  had  been 
rather  w  arm 

Kate.  [With  horrid  relish.]  I  begin  to  see.  You  had  been 
saying  it  served  the  husband  right,  that  the  man  who  could  not 
look  after  his  wife  deserved  to  lose  her.  It  w^as  one  of  your  fa- 
vorite subjects.     Oh,  Harry,  say  it  w^as  that ! 

Sir  Harry.     [Sourly.]     It  may  have  been  something  like  that. 

Kate.  And  all  the  time  the  letter  w^as  there,  waiting;  and 
none  of  you  knew  except  the  clock.  Harry,  it  is  sweet  of  you  to 
tell  me.  [His  face  is  not  sweet.  The  illiterate  woman  has  used  the 
wrong  adjective.]     I  forget  what  I  said  precisely  in  the  letter. 

Sir  Harry.     [Pulverizing  her.]    So  do  I.    But  I  have  it  still. 

Kate.     [Not  pulverized.]     Do  let  me  see  it  again. 

[She  has  observed  his  eye  wandering  to  the  desk. 

Sir  Harry.     You  are  welcome  to  it  as  a  gift. 


32  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

[The  fateful  letter,  a  poor  little  dead  thing,  is  brought  to  light 
from  a  locked  drawer. 

Kate.  [Talcing  it.]  Yes,  this  is  it.  Harry,  how  you  did 
crumple  it!  [She  reads,  not  without  curiosity.]  "Dear  husband 
— I  call  you  that  for  the  last  time — I  am  off.  I  am  what  you  call 
making  a  bolt  of  it.  I  won't  try  to  excuse  myself  nor  to  explain, 
for  you  would  not  accept  the  excuses  nor  understand  the  explana- 
tion. It  will  be  a  little  shock  to  you,  but  only  to  your  pride; 
what  will  astound  you  is  that  any  woman  could  be  such  a  fool  as 
to  leave  such  a  man  as  you.  I  am  taking  nothing  with  me  that 
belongs  to  you.  May  you  be  very  happy. — Your  ungrateful 
Kate.  P.S. — You  need  not  try  to  find  out  who  he  is.  You  will 
try,  but  you  won't  succeed."  [She  folds  the  nasty  little  thing  up.] 
I  may  really  have  it  for  my  very  own  ? 

Sir  Harry.     You  really  may. 

Kate.  [Impudently.]  If  you  would  care  for  a  typed 
copy ? 

Sir  Harry.  [In  a  voice  with  which  he  used  to  frighten  his 
grandmother].  None  of  your  sauce!  [Wincing.]  1  had  to  let 
them  see  it  in  the  end. 

KL^.TE.     I  can  picture  Jack  Lamb  eating  it. 

Sir  Harry.     A  penniless  parson's  daughter. 

Kate.    That  is  all  I  was. 

Sir  Harry.     We  searched  for  the  two  of  you  high  and  low. 

Kate.     Private  detectives  ? 

Sir  Harry.    They  couldn't  get  on  the  track  of  you. 

Kate.     [Smiling.]     No  ? 

Sir  Harry.  But  at  last  the  courts  let  me  serve  the  papers  by 
advertisement  on  a  man  unknown,  and  I  got  my  freedom. 

Kate.     So  I  saw.     It  was  the  last  I  heard  of  you. 

Sir  Harry.  [Each  word  a  blow  for  her.]  And  I  married  again 
just  as  soon  as  ever  I  could. 

ICate.  They  say  that  is  always  a  compliment  to  the  first 
wife. 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  33 

Sir  Harry.     [Violently.]     I  showed  them. 

KL\TE.  You  soon  let  them  see  that  if  one  woman  was  a  fool, 
you  still  had  the  pick  of  the  basket  to  choose  from. 

Sir  Harry.     By  James,  I  did. 

KLvTE.  [Bringing  him  to  earth  again.]  But  still,  you  wondered 
who  he  was. 

Sir  Harry.  I  suspected  everybody — even  my  pals.  I  felt 
like  jumping  at  their  throats  and  crying:  "It's  you !" 

Kate.  You  had  been  so  admirable  to  me,  an  instinct  told  you 
that  I  was  sure  to  choose  another  of  the  same. 

Sir  Harry.  I  thought,  it  can't  be  money,  so  it  must  be  looks. 
Some  dolly  face.  [lie  stares  at  her  in  perplexity.]  He  must  have 
had  something  wonderful  about  him  to  make  you  willing  to  give 
up  all  that  you  had  with  me. 

Kate.     [As  if  he  was  the  stupid  one.]     Poor  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  And  it  couldn't  have  been  going  on  for  long,  for 
I  would  have  noticed  the  change  in  you. 

Kate.     Would  you  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I  knew  you  so  well. 

Kate.     You  amazing  man. 

Sir  Harry.     So  who  was  he  ?     Out  with  it. 

Kate.     You  are  determined  to  know  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Your  promise.     You  gave  your  word. 

Kate.  If  I  must —  [She  is  the  villain  of  the  piece,  but  it  mu^t 
he  conceded  that  in  this  matter  she  is  reluctant  to  pain  him.]  I  am 
sorry  I  promised.  [Looking  at  him  steadily.]  There  was  no  one, 
Harry;  no  one  at  all. 

Sir  Harry.   [Rising.]  If  you  think  you  can  play  with  me 

Katb.     I  told  you  that  you  wouldn't  like  it. 

Sir  Harry.     [Rasping.]     It  is  unbelievable. 

Kate.     I  suppose  it  is;  but  it  is  true. 

Sir  Harry.     Your  letter  itself  gives  you  the  lie. 

Kate.  That  was  intentional.  I  saw  that  if  the  truth  were 
known  you  might  have  a  difficulty  in  getting  your  freedom;  and 


34  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

as  I  was  getting  mine  it  seemed  fair  that  you  should  have  yours 
also.  So  I  wrote  my  good-by  in  words  that  would  be  taken  to 
mean  what  you  thought  they  meant,  and  I  knew  the  law  would 
back  you  in  your  opinion.  For  the  law,  like  you,  Harry,  has  a 
profound  understanding  of  women. 

Sir  Harry.  [Trying  to  straighten  himself.]  I  don't  believe 
you  yet. 

Kate.  [Looking  not  unkindly  into  the  soul  of  this  man.]  Per- 
haps that  is  the  best  way  to  take  it.  It  is  less  unflattering  than 
the  truth.  But  you  were  the  only  one.  [Summing  up  her  life.] 
You  suflSced. 

Sir  Harry.     Then  what  mad  impulse 

ICate.  It  was  no  impulse,  Harry.  I  had  thought  it  out  for  a 
year. 

Sir  Harry.  A  year?  [Dazed.]  One  would  think  to  hear 
you  that  I  hadn't  been  a  good  husband  to  you. 

Kate.  [With  a  sad  smile.]  You  were  a  good  husband  accord- 
ing to  your  lights. 

Sir  Harry.     [Stoutly.]     I  think  so. 

Kate.  And  a  moral  man,  and  chatty,  and  quite  the  philan- 
thropist. 

Sir  Harry.     [On  sure  ground.]     All  women  envied  you. 

Kate.     How  you  loved  me  to  be  envied. 

Sir  Harry.     I  swaddled  you  in  luxury. 

Kate.     [Making  her  great  revelation.]     That  was  it. 

Sir  Harry.     [Blankly.]     What.^^ 

Kate.  [Who  can  be  serene  because  it  is  all  over.]  How  you 
beamed  at  me  when  I  sat  at  the  head  of  your  fat  dinners  in  my 
fat  jewelry,  surrounded  by  our  fat  friends. 

Sir  Harry.     [Aggrieved.]     They  weren't  so  fat. 

Kate.  [A  side  issue.]  All  except  those  who  were  so  thin. 
Have  you  ever  noticed,  Harry,  that  many  jewels  make  women 
either  incredibly  fat  or  incredibly  thin  ? 

Sir  Harry.     [Shouting.]     I  have  not.     [Is  it  worth  while  to 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  35 

argue  with  her  any  longer?]  We  had  all  the  most  interesting  so- 
ciety of  the  day.  It  wasn't  only  business  men.  There  were  poli- 
ticians, painters,  writers 

Kate.  Only  the  glorious,  dazzling  successes.  Oh,  the  fat  talk 
while  we  ate  too  much — about  who  had  made  a  hit  and  who  was 
slipping  back,  and  what  the  noo  house  cost  and  the  noo  motor 
and  the  gold  soup-plates,  and  who  was  to  be  the  noo  knight. 

Sir  Harry.  [Whoit  will  he  observed  is  unanswerable  from  first 
to  last.]  Was  anybody  getting  on  better  than  me,  and  conse- 
quently you  ? 

Kate.  Consequently  me  !  Oh,  Harry,  you  and  your  sublime 
religion. 

Sir  Harry.  [Honest  heart.]  My  religion  ?  I  never  was  one 
to  talk  about  religion,  but 

Kate.  Pooh,  Harry,  you  don't  even  know  what  your  religion 
was  and  is  and  will  be  till  the  day  of  your  expensive  funeral. 
[And  here  is  the  lesson  that  life  has  taught  her.]  One's  religion  is 
whatever  he  is  most  interested  in,  and  yours  is  Success. 

Sir  Harry.  [Quoting  from  his  morning  paper.]  Ambition — 
it  is  the  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds. 

EIate.     Noble  minds ! 

Sir  Harry.  [At  last  grasping  what  she  is  talking  about.]  You 
are  not  saying  that  you  left  me  because  of  my  success  ? 

Kate.  Yes,  that  was  it.  [And  now  she  stands  revealed  to  him.] 
I  couldn't  endure  it.  If  a  failure  had  come  now  and  then — but 
your  success  was  suffocating  me.  [She  is  rigid  with  emotion.] 
The  passionate  craving  I  had  to  be  done  with  it,  to  find  myself 
among  people  who  had  not  got  on. 

Sir  Harry.     [With  proper  spirit.]     There  are  plenty  of  them. 

Kate.  There  were  none  in  our  set.  When  they  began  to  go 
down-hill  they  rolled  out  of  our  sight. 

Sir  Harry.  [Clenching  it.]  I  tell  you  I  am  worth  a  quarter 
of  a  million. 

Kate.     [Unabashed.]     That  is  what  you  are  worth  to  yourself. 


36  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

I'll  tell  you  what  you  are  worth  to  me:  exactly  twelve  pounds. 
For  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  could  launch  myself  on  the  world 
alone  if  I  first  proved  my  mettle  by  earning  twelve  pounds;  and 
as  soon  as  I  had  earned  it  I  left  you. 

Sir  Harry.     [In  the  scales.]     Twelve  pounds  ! 

Kate.  That  is  your  value  to  a  woman.  If  she  can't  make  it 
she  has  to  stick  to  you. 

Sir  Harry.  [Remembering  perhaps  a  rectory  garden.]  You 
valued  me  at  more  than  that  when  you  married  me. 

Kate.  [Seeing  it  also.]  Ah,  I  didn't  know  you  then.  If  only 
you  had  been  a  man,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     A  man  ?     What  do  you  mean  by  a  man  ? 

Kate.  [Leaving  the  garden.]  Haven't  you  heard  of  them  ? 
They  are  something  fine;  and  every  woman  is  loath  to  admit  to 
herself  that  her  husband  is  not  one.  When  she  marries,  even 
though  she  has  been  a  very  trivial  person,  there  is  in  her  some 
vague  stirring  toward  a  worthy  life,  as  well  as  a  fear  of  her  capac- 
ity for  evil.  She  knows  her  chance  lies  in  him.  If  there  is  some- 
thing good  in  him,  w^hat  is  good  in  her  finds  it,  and  they  join 
forces  against  the  baser  parts.  So  I  didn't  give  you  up  willingly, 
Harry.  I  invented  all  sorts  of  theories  to  explain  you.  Your 
hardness — I  said  it  was  a  fine  want  of  mawkishness.  Your  coarse- 
ness— I  said  it  goes  with  strength.  Your  contempt  for  the  weak 
— I  called  it  virility.  Your  want  of  ideals  was  clear-sightedness. 
Your  ignoble  views  of  w^omen — I  tried  to  think  them  funny.  Oh, 
I  clung  to  you  to  save  myself.  But  I  had  to  let  go;  you  had  only 
the  one  quality,  Harry,  success;  you  had  it  so  strong  that  it  swal- 
lowed all  the  others. 

Sir  Harry.  [Not  to  he  diverted  from  the  main  issue.]  How  did 
you  earn  that  twelve  pounds  ? 

Kate.  It  took  me  nearly  six  montlis;  but  I  earned  it  fairly. 
[She  presses  her  hand  on  the  typewriter  as  lovingly  as  many  a  woman 
has  'pressed  a  rose.]  I  learned  this.  I  hired  it  and  taught  my- 
self.    I  ^ot  some  work  through  a  friend,  and  with  my  first  twelve 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  37 

pounds  I  paid  for  my  machine.  Then  I  considered  that  I  was 
free  to  go,  and  I  went. 

Sir  Harry.  All  this  going  on  in  my  house  while  you  were 
living  in  the  lap  of  luxury !  [She  nods.]  By  God,  you  were  de- 
termined. 

K.\TE.     [Briefly.]     By  God,  I  was. 

Sm  Harry.     [Staring.]     How  you  must  have  hated  me. 

Kate.  [Smiling  at  the  childish  word.]  Not  a  bit — after  I  saw 
that  there  was  a  way  out.  From  that  hour  you  amused  me, 
Harry;  I  was  even  sorry  for  you,  for  I  saw  that  you  couldn't  help 
yourself.     Success  is  just  a  fatal  gift. 

Sir  Harry.     Oh,  thank  you. 

Kate.  [  Thinking,  dear  friends  in  front,  of  you  and  me  perhaps.] 
Yes,  and  some  of  your  most  successful  friends  knew  it.  One  or 
two  of  them  used  to  look  very  sad  at  times,  as  if  they  thought 
they  might  have  come  to  something  if  they  hadn't  got  on. 

Sm  Harry.  [Who  has  a  horror  of  sacrilege.]  The  battered 
crew  you  live  among  now — what  are  they  but  folk  who  have  tried 
to  succeed  and  failed  ? 

Kate.     That's  it;  they  try,  but  they  fail. 

Sir  Harry.    And  always  will  fail. 

Kate.  Always.  Poor  souls — I  say  of  them.  Poor  soul — 
they  say  of  me.  It  keeps  us  human.  That  is  why  I  never  tire 
of  them. 

Sir  Harry.  [Comprehensively.]  Bah !  Kate,  I  tell  you  I'll 
be  worth  half  a  million  yet. 

Kate.     I'm  sure  you  will.     You're  getting  stout,  Harry. 

Sm  Harry.     No,  I'm  not. 

Kate.  What  was  the  name  of  that  fat  old  fellow  who  used 
lo  fall  asleep  at  our  dinner-parties  ? 

Sir  Harry.     If  you  mean  Sir  William  Crackley 

Kate.  That  was  the  man.  Sir  William  was  to  me  a  perfect 
picture  of  the  grand  success.  He  had  got  on  so  well  that  he  was 
very,  very  stout,  and  when  he  sat  on  a  chair  it  was  thus  [her  hands 


38  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

meeting  in  front  of  her] — as  if  he  were  holding  his  success  together. 
That  is  what  you  are  working  for,  Harry.  You  will  have  that 
and  the  half  million  about  the  same  time. 

Sir  Harry.  [Who  has  surely  been  very  patient.]  Will  you 
please  to  leave  my  house  ? 

Kate.  [Putting  on  her  gloves,  soiled  things.]  But  don't  let  us 
part  in  anger.  How  do  j^ou  think  I  am  looking,  Harry,  com- 
pared to  the  dull,  inert  thing  that  used  to  roll  round  in  your  pad- 
ded carriages  ? 

Sir  Harry.  [In  masterly  fashion.]  I  forget  what  you  were 
like.  I'm  very  sure  you  never  could  have  held  a  candle  to  the 
present  Lady  Sims. 

Kate.     That  is  a  picture  of  her,  is  it  not  ? 

Sir  Harry.  [Seizing  his  chance  again.]  In  her  wedding- 
gown.     Painted  by  an  R.A. 

Kate.     [Wickedly.]    A  knight.? 

Sir  Harry.     [Deceived.]    Yes. 

Kate.  [Who  likes  Lady  Sims — a  piece  of  presumption  on  hel 
part.]     It  is  a  very  pretty  face. 

Sir  Harry.  [With  the  pride  of  possession.]  Acknowledged  ta 
be  a  beauty  everywhere. 

Kate.  There  is  a  merry  look  in  the  eyes,  and  character  in  the 
chin. 

Sir  Harry.     [Like  an  auctioneer.]    Noted  for  her  wit. 

Kate.  All  her  life  before  her  when  that  was  painted.  It  is  a 
spirituelle  face  too.  [Suddenly  she  turns  on  him  with  anger,  for  the 
first  and  only  time  in  the  play.]     Oh,  Harry,  you  brute ! 

Sir  Harry.     [Staggered.]    Eh.?    What.? 

Kate.  That  dear  creature,  capable  of  becoming  a  noble  wife 
and  mother — she  is  the  spiritless  woman  of  no  account  that  I 
saw  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  forgive  you  for  myself,  for  I  es- 
caped, but  that  poor  lost  soul,  oh,  Harry,  Harry. 

Sm  Harry.     [Waving  her  to  the  door.]     I'll  thank  you —    If 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  39 

ever  there  was  a  woman  proud  of  her  husband  and  happy  in  her 
married  life,  that  w  oman  is  Lady  Sims. 

Kate.     I  wonder. 

Sir  Harry.     Then  you  needn't  wonder. 

Kate.  [Slowli/.]  If  I  was  a  husband — it  is  my  advice  to  all 
of  them — I  would  often  w  atch  my  wife  quietly  to  see  whether  the 
twelve-pound  look  was  not  coming  into  her  eyes.  Two  boys,  did 
you  say,  and  both  like  you  ? 

Sir  Harry.     What  is  that  to  you  ? 

Kate.  [With  glistening  eyes].  I  was  only  thinking  that  some- 
where there  are  two  little  girls  who,  when  they  grow  up — the 
dear,  pretty  girls  who  are  all  meant  for  the  men  that  don't  get 
on  !     Well,  good-by.  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  [Showing  a  little  human  weakness^  it  is  to  he 
feared.]     Say  first  that  you're  sorry. 

Kate.     For  what.^ 

Sir  Harry.  That  you  left  me.  Say  you  regret  it  bitterly. 
You  know  you  do.  [She  smiles  and  shakes  her  head.  He  is  pet- 
tish. He  makes  a  terrible  announcement.]  You  have  spoiled  the 
day  for  me.. 

Kate.  [To  hearten  him.]  I  am  sorry  for  that;  but  it  is  only 
a  pin-prick,  Harry.  I  suppose  it  is  a  little  jarring  in  the  moment 
of  your  triumph  to  find  that  there  is — one  old  friend — who  does 
not  think  you  a  success;  but  you  will  soon  forget  it.  Who  cares 
what  a  typist  thinks  ? 

Sir  Harry.  [Heartened.]  Nobody.  A  typist  at  eighteen 
shillings  a  week ! 

Kate.     [Proudly.]     Not  a  bit  of  it,  Harry.     I  double  that. 

Sm  Harry.     [Neatly.]     Magnificent! 
[There  is  a  timid  knock  at  the  door. 

Lady  Sims.     May  I  come  in  ? 

Sir  Harry.     [Rather  appealingly .]     It  is  Lady  Sims. 

Kate.  I  won't  tell.  She  is  afraid  to  come  into  her  husband's 
room  without  knocking ! 


40  SIR    JAMES    BARRIE 

SiK  Harry.     She  is  not.     [Uxoriously.]     Come  in,  dearest. 

[Dearest  enters,  carrying  the  sword.     She  might  have  had  the 

sense  not  to  bring  it  in  while  this  annoying  person  is  here. 

Lady  Sims.     [Thinking  she  has  brought  her  welcome  with  her.] 

Harry,  the  sword  has  come. 

Sm  Harry.     [Who  will  dote  on  it  presently.]     Oh,  all  right. 
Lady  Sims.     But  I  thought  you  were  so  eager  to  practise 
with  it. 

{The  person  smiles  at  this.     He  wishes  he  had  not  looked  to 
see  if  she  was  smiling. 
Sib  Harry.     [Sharply.]     Put  it  down. 

[Lady  Sims  flushes  a  little  as  she  lays  the  sword  aside. 
Kate.     [With   her   confounded   courtesy.]     It    is   a   beautiful 
sword,  if  I  may  say  so. 
Lady  Sims.     [Helped.]    Yes. 

[The  person  thinks  she  can  put  him  in  the  wrong,  does  she? 
He'll  show  her. 
Sir  Harry.     [With  one  eye  on  Kate.]     Emmy,  the  one  thing 
your  neck  needs  is  more  jewels. 
Lady  Sims.     [Faltering.]     More! 

Sir  Harry.     Some  ropes  of  pearls.     I'll  see  to  it.     It's  a  bag- 
atelle to  me.     [Kate  conceals  her  chagrin,  so  she  had  better  be 
shown  the  door.     He  rings.]     I  won't  detain  you  any  longer,  miss. 
Kate.     Thank  you. 

Lady  Sims.     Going  already  ?     You  have  been  very  quick. 
Sir  Harry.     The  person  doesn't  suit,  Emmy. 
Lady  Sims.  I'm  sorry. 

Kate.     So  am  I,  madam,  but  it  can't  be  helped.     Good-by, 
your  ladyship — good-by,  Sir  Harry. 

[There  is  a  suspicion  of  an  impertinent  courtesy,  and  she  is 

escorted  off  the  premises  by  Tombes.     The  air  of  the  room 

is  purified  by  her  going.     Sir  Harry  notices  it  at  once. 

Lady  Sims.     [Whose  tendency  is  to  say  the  ivrong  thing.]     She 

seemed  such  a  capable  woman. 


THE    TWELVE-POUND    LOOK  41 

Sir  Harry.     [On  his  hearth.]     I  don't  like  her  style  at  all. 

Lady  Sims.     [Meekly.]     Of  course  you  know  best. 

[This  is  the  right  kind  of  woman. 

Sir  Harry.  [Rather  anxious  for  corroboration.]  Lord,  how 
she  winced  when  I  said  I  was  to  give  you  those  ropes  of  pearls. 

Lady  Sims.     Did  she.''     I  didn't  notice.     I  suppose  so. 

Sir  Harry.  [Frotvning.]  Suppose  ?  Surely  I  know  enough 
about  women  to  know  that. 

Lady  Sims.     Yes,  oh  yes. 

Sir  Harry.  [Odd  that  so  confident  a  man  should  ask  this.] 
Emmy,  I  know  you  well,  don't  I  .^  I  can  read  you  like  a  book, 
eh? 

Lady  Sims.     [Nervously.]     Yes,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  [Jovially,  but  with  an  inquiring  eye.]  What  a 
different  existence  yours  is  from  that  poor  lonely  wretch's. 

Lady  Sims.     Yes,  but  she  has  a  very  contented  face. 

Sm  Harry.     [With  a  stamp  of  his  foot.]    All  put  on.     'WTiat.'* 

Lady  Sims.     [Timidly.]     I  didn't  say  anything. 

Sir  Harry.     [Snapping.]     One  w^ould  think  you  envied  her. 

Lady  Sims.  Envied  ?  Oh,  no — but  I  thought  she  looked  so 
alive.     It  was  while  she  was  working  the  machine. 

Sir  Harry.  Alive !  That's  no  life.  It  is  you  that  are  alive. 
[Curtly.]     I'm  busy,  Emmy.  [He  sits  at  his  writing-table. 

Lady  Sims.  [Dutifully.]  I'm  sorry;  I'll  go,  Harry.  [Incon- 
sequentially.]     Are  they  very  expensive  ? 

Sir  Harry.     What.?^ 

Lady  Sims.     Those  machines .'' 

[When  she  has  gone  the  possible  meaning  of  her  question 
startles  him.  The  curtain  hides  him  from  us,  but  we  may 
be  sure  that  he  mil  soon  be  bland  again.  We  have  a  com- 
fortable feeling,  you  and  I,  that  there  is  nothing  of  Harry 
Sims  in  us. 


TRADITION 

BY 

GEORGE  MIDDLETON 


Tradition  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publisher, 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York  City.  All  rights  reserved.  For 
permission  to  perform,  address  the  author,  in  care  of  the  publisher. 

The  author  and  publisher  of  this  play  have  permitted  this  reprinting 
of  copyrighted  material  on  the  understanding  that  the  play  will  be  used 
only  in  classroom  work.  No  other  use  of  the  play  is  authorized,  and 
permission  for  any  other  use  must  be  secured  from  the  holder  of  the  act- 
ing rights. 


GEORGE  MIDDLETON 

George  Middleton,  one  of  the  first  to  write  and  publish  a  vol- 
ume of  one-act  plays  in  America,  was  born  in  Paterson,  New 
Jersey,  1880.  He  was  graduated  from  Columbia  University  in 
1902.  Since  1921  he  has  been  literary  editor  of  La  Follettes 
Weekly,  and,  in  addition,  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to 
magazines  and  reviews  on  dramatic  and  literary  subjects.  Dur- 
ing the  last  few  years  he  has  spent  much  of  his  time  abroad. 

George  Middleton's  chiefest  interest  has  been  in  the  one-act 
play.  He  has  been  an  ardent  champion  of  the  shorter  form  of 
drama.  Among  his  three  volumes  of  one-act  plays  are  Embers 
(including  The  Failures,  The  Gargoyle,  In  His  House,  Madonna, 
and  The  Man  Masterful),  Tradition  (including  On  Bail,  Their 
Wife,  Waiting,  The  Cheat  of  Pity,  and  Mothers),  and  Possession 
(including  The  Grove,  A  Good  Woman,  The  Black  Tie,  Circles, 
and  The  Unborn).  Other  one-act  plays  are  Criminals  and  The 
Reason.  His  longer  plays  are  Nowadays  and  The  Road  Together. 
IVIr.  Middleton  has  lectured  widely  on  the  one-act  play  before 
colleges,  in  Little  Theatres,  and  clubs.  Perhaps  his  most  nota- 
ble article  is  The  Neglected  One- Act  Play,  which  appeared  in  The 
New  York  Dramatic  Mirror  in  1912. 

Tradition  is  one  of  Mr.  Middleton's  best  and  most  popular 
one-act  plays;  and  it  most  nearly  conforms  to  the  organic  tech- 
nic  of  the  one-act  play. 


FIRST   PERFORMANCE  AT  THE   BERKELEY  THEA- 
TER, NEW  YORK  CITY,  JANUARY  24,  1913. 
(Produced  under  the  personal  direction  of  Mr.  Frank  Reicher.) 

THE  PEOPLE 

George  Ollivant  .  .  .  Mr.  George  W.  Wilson 
Emily,  his  wife  .....  Miss  Alice  Leigh 
Mary,  his  daughter^  an  actress        .     Miss  Fola  La  Follette 


TRADITION* 

SCENE :  The  sitting-room  at  the  Ollivants'  in  a  small  town  up- 
State,     It  is  an  evening  late  in  the  spring. 

A  simple  room  is  disclosed,  bearing  the  traces  of  another  generation. 
Old-fashioned  icindow-doors  at  the  right,  overlooking  the  gar- 
den, open  on  a  porch  ;  another  door  in  hack  opening  on  the  hall- 
ivay.  A  large  fireplace  at  the  left,  now  concealed  by  an  em- 
broidered screen;  the  horsehair  furniture,  several  terra-cotta 
statuettes,  and  a  woodcut  or  two  on  the  walls  create  the  subtle 
atmosphere  of  the  past.  There  is  a  lamp  on  the  table,  and 
another  on  a  bracket  by  the  door  in  back.  Moonlight  filters 
through  the  window-doors. 

The  Ollivants  are  discovered  together.  Mary,  a  rather  plain 
woman  of  about  twenty-five,  with  a  suggestion  of  quick  sensi- 
bilities, is  standing,  lost  in  thought,  looking  out  into  the  garden. 
Her  mother,  Emily,  nearing  fifty,  quiet  and  subdued  in  man- 
ner, is  seated  at  the  table  trimming  a  hat.  Occasionally  she 
looks  at  Majiy,  stops  her  work,  glances  at  her  husband,  closes 
her  eyes  as  though  tired,  and  then  resumes.  The  silence  con- 
tinues for  some  time,  broken  only  by  the  rattle  of  the  town  paper 
which  George  Ollivant  is  reading.  He  is  well  on  in  middle 
life,  with  a  strong,  determined  face  not  entirely  without  elements 
of  kindness  and  deep  feeling.  When  he  finishes,  he  folds  the 
paper,  puts  it  on  the  table,  knocks  the  ashes  carefully  from  his 
pipe  into  his  hand,  and  throws  them  behind  the  screen;  takes 

*  Copyright,  1913,  by  George  Middleton.     All  rights  reserved. 
47 


48  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

off  his  spectacles  and  wipes  them  as  he,  too,  looks  over  toward 
his  daughter,  still  gazing  absently  into  the  garden.  Finallyy 
after  a  slight  hesitation,  he  goes  to  her  and  puts  his  arm  about 
her;  she  is  startled  but  smiles  sweetly. 

Ollivant.     [Affectionately.]     Glad  to  be  home  again,  Mary  ? 

Mary.     [Evasively.]     The  garden  is  so  pretty. 

Ollivant.     Hasn't  changed  much,  eh  ? 

Mary.     It  seems  different;  perhaps  it's  the  night. 

Ollivant.  I  guess  it  isn't  up  to  its  usual  standard.  Haven't 
seen  your  mother  there  so  often  this  spring. 

Emily.     [Quietly.]     This  dry  spell  is  not  good  for  flowers. 

Ollivant.  It's  only  the  cultivated  flowers  that  need  care; 
can't  help  thinking  that  when  I  see  the  wild  ones  so  hardy  in  my 
fields  on  the  hill.  [Turning  to  Emily  and  patting  her.]  Is  there 
any  of  that  spray  mixture  left,  Emily,  dear  ? 

Emily.     I  haven't  looked  lately. 

Ollivant.  I'll  order  some  to-morrow.  [Taking  up  his  pipe 
again  and  looking  for  the  tobacco.]  Think  it  would  be  a  good  idea, 
daughter,  if  you'd  spray  those  rosebushes  every  couple  of  weeks. 
The  bugs  are  a  pest  this  spring.     Where's  my  tobacco  ? 

Emily.     On  the  mantel. 

Ollivant.  Wish  you  would  always  leave  it  on  the  table;  you 
know  how  I  hate  to  have  things  changed. 

[Ollivant  goes  to  the  mantel,  filling  his  pipe,  and  while  his 
back  is  turned,  Mary  makes  a  quick  questioning  gesture 
to  her  mother,  who  sighs  helplessly.  INIary  ponders  a 
moment. 

Mary.     How's  Ben  been  doing  these  two  years,  father  ? 

Ollivant.     Hasn't  your  brother  written  you  ? 

INIary.     Only  once — ^when  I  left  home;  he  disapproved,  too. 

Ollivant.  Had  an  older  brother's  feeling  of  wanting  to  take 
care  of  you,  Mary. 


TRADITION  49 

Mary.     Yes;  I  know.     How's  he  doing  ? 

Ollivaj^t.  He's  commencing  to  get  on  his  feet.  Takes  time 
and  money  for  any  one  to  get  started  these  days. 

JVIary.  But  he's  still  in  partnership  with  Bert  Taylor,  isn't 
he.' 

Ollivant.  Yes.  He'd  have  been  somewhere  if  he'd  worked 
in  with  me  as  I  did  with  my  father.  Things  should  be  handed 
down.  Offered  him  the  chance,  tried  to  make  him  take  it,  as 
your  mother  knows;  but  that  college  chum — nice  enough  fellow, 
I've  heard — turned  his  head  another  way.  [Lighting  his  pipe 
and  puffing  slowly.]  It's  best  to  humor  a  young  fellow's  ideas  if 
he  sticks  them  out,  but  I'd  like  to  have  had  us  all  here  together 
now.  The  place  is  big  enough  even  if  he  should  want  to  marry. 
Your  mother  and  I  came  here,  you  know,  when  your  grandfather 
was  still  alive. 

Mary.     Then  Ben  isn't  making  any  money  ? 

Ollivant.     [Reluctantly.]     Not  yet — to  speak  of. 

Emily.  [Quietly.]  But  he's  promised  to  pay  his  father  back, 
Mary. 

^Iary.  I  see.  [Thoughtfully.]  College  and  then  more  help 
to  get  started,  because  he's  a  man. 

Ollivant.  [Complacently.]  He'll  have  to  support  a  family 
some  daj^;  I've  had  to  keep  that  in  mind. 

Mary.     I'd  like  to  have  a  real  talk  with  him. 

Ollivant.  When  did  his  letter  say  he'd  be  coming  for  a  visit, 
Emily? 

Emily.     The  fifteenth. 

Mary.    Not  till  then  ?     That's  too  bad, 

Ollivant.    Eh? 

Mary.  [After  exchanging  a  quick  glance  with  her  mother  and 
gaining  courage.]  Father,  I  hope  you  didn't  misunderstand  my 
coming  back  ? 

Ollivant.  Not  at  all.  We  all  make  mistakes — especially 
when  we're  young.     Perhaps  I  was  a  bit  hasty  when  you  left 


50  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

home,  but  I  knew  you'd  soon  see  I  was  right.  I  didn't  think  it 
would  take  you  two  years — but  perhaps  if  I'd  written  you  before 
you'd  have  come  sooner.  I  told  your  mother  I'd  like  to  make  it 
easy  for  you  to  come  home. 

Mary.     Mother  suggested  that  you  write  me  ? 

Ollivant.  Well,  I  suppose  you  might  put  it  that  way,  I  al- 
ways felt  she  thought  I  was  a  bit  hard  on  you,  but  I'm  not  one 
to  back  down  easily. 

Mary.  Don't  blame  me  then,  father,  if  I  showed  I  was  your 
daughter. 

Ollivant.  Let's  forget  my  feeling;  but  naturally  I  was  set 
back. 

Mary.  Because  you  didn't  take  my  going  seriously  until  I 
was  actually  leaving. 

Ollivant.  I  couldn't  get  it  into  my  head  then,  and  I  can't 
now,  how  any  girl  would  want  to  leave  a  home  like  this,  where 
you  have  everything.  You  don't  know  how  lucky  you  are — or 
maybe  you  have  realized  it.  Look  about  you  and  see  what  other 
girls  have.  Is  it  like  this  ?  Trees,  flowers,  and  a  lake  view  that's 
the  best  in  the  county.  Why,  one  can  breathe  here  and  even 
taste  the  air.  Every  time  I  come  back  from  a  business  trip  it 
makes  a  new  man  of  me.  Ask  your  mother.  Eh,  Emily  ?  When 
I  sit  out  there  on  the  porch  in  the  cool  evenings  it  makes  me  feel 
at  ease  with  the  world  to  know  that  the  place  is  viine  and  that 
I've  raised  a  family  and  can  take  care  of  them  all.  Ben  had  to 
go,  I  suppose — it's  the  way  with  sons;  but  I  thought  you,  at 
least,  would  stay  here,  daughter,  in  this  old  house  where  you  were 
born,  where  I  was  born,  where  all  your  early  associations 

Mary.     [Shuddering.]     I  hate  associations. 

Ollivant.  [Eying  her.]  W^ell,  I'd  like  to  know  where  you 
get  thai  from.  Not  from  your  mother  and  me.  We  like  them, 
don't  we,  Emily?  AVhy,  your  mother's  hardly  ever  even  left 
here — but  you  had  to  up  and  get  out. 

IVIary.     Yes.     That's  right,  father;  I  had  to. 


TRADITION  51 

Ollivant.  [He  stops  smoking  and  looks  at  her  sharply. \  Had 
to  ?     Who  made  you  ? 

Mary.     [Reluctantly.]     It  was  something  inside  me. 

Ollivant.     [In  spite  of  himself.]     Tush — that  foolishness. 

IVIary.     [Quicldy.]     Don't  make  it  hard  for  us  again. 

Ollivant.  I  made  it  hard,  Mary?  Because  I  objected  to 
your  leaving  your  mother  here  alone  ? 

IVLuiY.  I  remember;  you  said  I  was  a  foolish,  "stage-struck" 
girl. 

Ollivant.     Well,  you're  over  that,  aren't  you  ? 

Mary.  That's  just  where  you  are  mistaken,  father.  [Slowly.] 
That's  why  I  asked  you  if  you  hadn't  misunderstood  my  coming 
back. 

Ollivant.     [Suspiciously.]    Then  why  did  you  come  at  all.? 

Mary.  I'm  human;  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  mother,  so  I 
came  when  you  generously  wrote  me.  I'm  not  going  to  stay 
and  spray  the  roses. 

Olliv.\nt.  [He  eyes  her  tensely  and  controls  himself  with  an 
effort.]     So  you  are  not  going  to  stay  with  your  mother  and  me  ? 

Mary.  [Affectionately.]  I'll  come  see  you  as  often  as  I  can 
and 

Ollivant.  — and  make  a  hotel  of  your  home.^^  [IVIary  is 
silent.]  Don't  you  see  your  mother  is  getting  older  and  needs 
somebody  to  be  here  ? 

Emily.  [With  a  quiet  assurance.]  I  have  never  been  so  well 
and  contented. 

Ollivant.  [Tenderly.]  I  know  better,  Emily;  can't  I  see 
you're  getting  thinner  and  older  ?  [Stopping  her  protests.]  Now, 
let  me  manage  this,  dear.  It's  a  girl's  place  to  stay  at  home. 
You  know  my  feelings  about  that.  Suppose  anything  should 
happen  to  your  mother,  what  would  /  do  ? 

Mary.     So  it's  not  mother  alone  you  are  thinking  of  ? 

Ollivant.  [Tersely.]  I'm  thinking  of  your  place  at  home — 
doing  a  woman's  work.     I'm  not  proud  of  having  my  daugh- 


52  GEORGE     MIDDLETON 

ter  off  earning  her  own  living  as  though  I  couldn't  support 
her. 

Emily.     George ! 

Mary.     I  thought  it  was  only  because  I  was  on  the  stage. 

Ollivant.  Well,  it's  not  the  most  heavenly  place,  is  it  ?  A 
lot  of  narrow-minded  fools  here  in  town  thought  I  was  crazy  to 
let  you  go;  I  knew  how  they  felt;  I  grinned  and  bore  it.  You 
were  my  daughter  and  I  loved  you,  and  I  didn't  want  them  to 
think  any  less  of  you  by  their  finding  out  you  were  leaving  against 
my  wish. 

Mary.     [Slowly,  with  comprehension.]     That's  what  hurt  you. 

Ollivant.  Well,  I  blamed  myself  a  bit  for  taking  you  to 
plays  and  liking  them  myself. 

IVIary.  People  here  will  soon  forget  about  me  and  merely  be 
sorry  for  you. 

Ollivant.  [Persuasively.]  Why,  Mary.  I've  made  it  easy 
for  you  to  stay.  I  told  every  one  you  were  coming  home  for 
good.     They'll  think  me  a  fool  if 

Mary.  [Tenderly.]  You  meant  what  was  dear  and  good, 
father;  but  you  had  no  right  to  say  that.     I'm  sorry. 

Ollivant.  I  did  it  because  I  thought  you  had  come  to  your 
senses. 

Mary.     [Firmly.]     I  never  saw  so  clearly  as  I  do  now. 

Ollivant.  [Bluntly.]  Then  you're  stubborn — plain  stubborn 
— not  to  admit  failure. 

Mary.     [Startled.]     Failure  ? 

Ollivant.  I  know  what  the  newspapers  said;  Ben  sent  them 
to  me. 

Mary.     W^hich  ones  ? 

Ollivant.     Why,  all  of  them,  I  guess. 

Mary.     Did  he  send  you  the  good  ones.'' 

Ollivant.     Were  there  any  ? 

Mary.  Oh,  I  see.  So  Ben  carefully  picked  out  only  those 
which  would  please  you. 

Ollivant.     [Sarcastically.]     Please  me  ? 


TRADITION  53 

Mary.  Yes;  because  you  and  he  didn't  want  me  to  succeed; 
because  j'ou  thought  failure  would  bring  me  home.  But  don't 
you  think  I'll  let  some  cub  reporter  settle  things  for  me.  I'll 
never  come  home  through  failure — never. 

Ollivant.  [Kindly.]  Ben  and  I  only  want  to  protect  you, 
Mary. 

]VL\RY.     "Why  do  men  always  want  to  protect  women  ? 

Ollivant.    Because  we  know  the  world. 

Mary.  Yes;  but  you  don't  know  ttzc.  Father,  you  still  think 
I'm  only  a  foolish,  stage-struck  girl,  and  want  flowers  and  men 
and  my  name  in  big  letters.     It  isn't  that. 

Ollivant.     "Well,  what  is  it,  then  ? 

Mary.  Oh — I  want  to  be  an  artist.  I  don't  suppose  you  can 
understand  it;  I  didn't,  myself,  at  first.  I  was  born  with  it,  but 
didn't  know  what  it  was  till  that  first  time  you  took  me  to  the 
theatre. 

Ollivant.     So  it  was  all  my  fault  ? 

Mary.  It  isn't  anybody's  fault;  it's  just  a  fact.  I  knew  from 
that  day  what  I  wanted  to  do.  I  wanted  to  act — to  create.  I 
don't  care  whether  I  play  a  leading  lady  or  a  scrub-woman,  if  I 
can  do  it  with  truth  and  beauty. 

Ollivant.  Well,  you  haven't  done  much  of  either,  have  you  ? 
VThat  have  you  got  to  show  for  our  unhappiness?  What  have 
you  got  ahead  of  you  ? 

Mary.     Nothing — definite. 

Ollivant.     [Incredulously.]    Yet,  you're  going  to  keep  at  it  ? 

Mary.     Yes. 

Ollivant.     What  do  you  think  of  that,  Emily  ? 

Mary.     I  am  going  to  the  city  Monday. 

Olliv.\nt.  [Persistently.]  But  what  will  you  do  when  you 
get  there  ? 

Mary.  What  I've  done  before:  hunt  a  job,  tramp  the  streets, 
call  at  the  oflSces,  be  snubbed  and  insulted  by  office-boys — keep 
at  it  till  I  get  something  to  do. 


54  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

Ollfvant.  Come,  come,  Mary;  don't  make  me  lose  patience. 
Put  your  pride  in  your  pocket.  You've  had  your  fling.  You've 
tried  and  failed.  Give  it  all  up  and  stay  home  here  where  you 
can  be  comfortable. 

Mary.  [With  intense  feeling.]  Father,  I  can't  give  it  up.  It 
doesn't  make  any  difference  how  they  treat  me,  how  many  times 
I  get  my  ''notice"  and  don't  even  make  good  according  to  their 
standards.  I  can't  give  it  up.  I  simply  can't.  It  keeps  gnaw- 
ing inside  me  and  driving  me  on.  It's  there — always  there,  and 
I  know  if  I  keep  at  work  I  will  succeed.     I  know  it;  I  know  it. 

[Mary  throws  herself  into  the  chair,  much  stirred.  Emily's 
eyes  have  eagerly  followed  her  throughout  this  as  though 
responding  sympathetically y  but  Olliyant  has  stood  in 
silence,  watching  her  apparently  without  comprehension. 

Ollivant.  [Not  without  kindness.]  Something  inside.  Huh  ! 
Have  you  any  clear  idea  what  she's  talking  about,  Emily  ? 

[Mary  gives  a  short,  hurt  cry  and  goes  quickly  to  the  window, 
looking  out  and  controlling  herself  ivith  an  effort. 

Emily.     [Softly,  as  she  looks  at  IVIary.]     I  think  I  understand. 

Ollivant.  I  don't.  Something  inside.  I  never  had  any- 
thing like  that  bothering  me.     What's  it  all  mean  ? 

Emily.  [Quietly.]  So  many  people  use  the  same  words,  but 
cannot  understand  each  other. 

Ollivant.  Well,  you  seem  to  think  it's  mighty  important 
Mary,  whatever  it  is;  but  it's  too  much  for  me.  If  you  had 
something  to  show  for  it  I  wouldn't  mind.  But  you're  just 
where  you  started  and  you  might  as  well  give  up. 

Emily.     George ! 

OlLaVant.  Now  I  don't  know  much  about  the  stage,  Emily, 
but  Ben  does.  He  says  you're  not  made  for  an  actress,  Mary; 
you  haven't  got  a  chance. 

IVIary.     [Turning.]     Father! 

Ollivant.  Can't  you  see  your  failure  isn't  your  own  fault? 
If  you  were  a  beauty  like  Helen  Safford  or  some  of  those  other 


TRADITION  55 

** stars" — but  you're  not  pretty,  why,  you're  not  even  good-look- 
ing and 

Mary.  [With  bitter  vehemence].  Oh,  don't  go  any  further.  I 
know  all  that.  But  I  don't  care  how  I  look  off  the  stage  if  only  I 
can  grow  beautiful  on  it.  I'll  create  with  so  much  inner  power 
and  beauty  that  people  will  forget  how  I  look  and  only  see  what 
I  think  and  feel.  I  can  do  it;  I  have  done  it;  I've  made  audiences 
feel  and  even  got  my  ''notice"  because  the  stage-manager  said  I 
was  "too  natural."  Helen  Safford — what's  she  ?  A  professional 
beauty  with  everything  outside  and  nothing  in.  You  think  of 
her  eyes,  her  mouth,  and  her  profile;  but  does  she  touch  you  so 
you  remember  ?  I  know  her  work.  Wait  till  I  get  a  chance  to 
play  a  scene  with  her — which  they  may  give  me  because  I'm  not 
good-looking — I'll  make  them  forget  she's  on  the  stage  the  first 
ten  minutes — yes,  and  you  and  Ben,  too,  if  you'll  come.  Helen 
Safford  .'*  Huh !  Why,  people  will  remember  me  when  she's 
only  a  lithograph. 

Ollivant.     Well,  then,  why  haven't  you  had  your  chance  ? 

Mary.  [QuicJdy.]  Because  most  managers  feel  the  way  you 
and  Ben  do.  And  not  having  a  lovely  profile  and  a  fashion-plate 
figure  stands  between  me  and  a  chance  even  to  read  a  part,  let 
alone  play  it.  That's  what  eats  the  heart  out  of  me,  mother; 
and  makes  me  hate  my  face  every  time  I  sit  down  to  put  on  the 
grease  paint. 

Ollivant.     Well,  don't  blame  me  for  that. 

Mary.  [Going  to  her  mother,  who  takes  her  hand.]  You  can 
laugh  at  me,  father;  you  don't  understand.  It's  foolish  to  talk. 
But,  oh,  mother,  why  is  such  beauty  given  to  women  like  Helen 
Safford  who  have  no  inner  need  of  it,  and  here  am  I,  with  a  real 
creative  gift,  wrapped  up  in  a  nondescript  package  which  stands 
between  me  and  everything  I  want  to  do  .'*  [With  determination.] 
But  I  will — ultimately  I  will  make  good,  in  spite  of  my  looks; 
others  have.  And  what  I've  suffered  will  make  me  a  greater 
artist. 


56  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

Ollivant.  [In  a  matter-of-fact  tone.]  Are  you  sure  all  this 
isn't  overconfidence  and  vanity? 

Mary.  I  don't  care  what  you  call  it.  It's  what  keeps  me 
working. 

Ollivant.  [Quickly.]  Working?  But  how  can  you  work 
without  an  engagement  ? 

JVIary.  That  w  the  hard  part  of  our  life;  waiting,  waiting  for 
a  chance  to  work.  But  don't  think  I  stand  still  when  I  haven't 
an  engagement.  I  don't  dare.  That's  why  I  keep  at  my  voice 
work  and  dancing  and 

Ollivant.  [Suddenly  interrupting.]  Dancing  and  voice  work 
when  you  have  no  engagements.  Would  you  mind  telling  me 
who  is  paying  the  bills  ? 

Mary.     [Indignantly.]     Father ! 

Ollivant.     I  think  I  have  the  right  to  ask  that. 

Mary.     Have  you  ? 

Ollivant.     I  am  your  father. 

Mary.  [With  quiet  dignity.]  You  thought  you'd  force  me 
here  at  home  to  do  as  you  wished  because  you  paid  for  my  food 
and  clothes;  when  you  took  that  from  me  you  ceased  to  have  that 
right.  Don't  forget  since  I  left  you've  not  helped  me  with  my 
work  or  given  me  a  penny. 

Ollivant.  [Suspiciously.]  Mary.  .  .  .  No,  that's  not  why 
you  went  away  from  home  ? 

Mary.     No. 

Ollivant.     Or  you  met  some  man  there  and  .  .  . 

Mary.     No. 

Ollivant.     There  is  some  man. 

Mary.     Why  a  ma?i  ? 

Ollivant.  Damn  them;  I  know  them.  [Breaking \  Good 
God,  Mary,  dear,  you  haven't  .  .  .  ?     Answer  me,  daughter. 

Mary.     [Calm.ly\     No,  there's  been  no  need  of  that. 

\He  has  heen  violently  shaken  at  the  thought,  looks  at  her  in- 
tently, believes  her,  and  then  continues  in  a  subdued  man- 


TRADITION  57 

Ollivant.     Then  who  helped  you  ?     Ben  ? 

Mary.  How  could  he  help  me  ?  Are  men  the  only  ones  who 
help  women  ? 

Emily.     [Quietly.]     Tell  limi,  Mary;  it's  best  now. 

Olliv-ajnt.  [Turning  slowly  to  her  in  surprise.]  You  know  and 
have  kept  it  from  me  ? 

Emily.  [Calmly,  as  she  puis  down  the  hat  she  has  been  trim- 
ming.] I  found  I  hadn't  lost  my  old  skill,  though  it's  been  a 
good  many  years  since  I  held  a  brush — since  before  we  were  mar- 
ried, George.  I  had  an  idea  I  thought  would  sell:  paper  dolls 
with  little  hand-painted  dresses  on  separate  sheets;  they  were  so 
much  softer  than  the  printed  kind,  and  children  like  anything 
soft.  I  wrote  to  IMr.  Aylwin — you  remember — he  was  so  kind 
to  me  years  before.  He  had  called  here  once  before  when  you 
were  away  and  asked  after  my  work.  He  used  to  think  I  had 
such  promise.  He  found  an  opportunity  to  use  the  dolls  as  a 
specialty,  and  when  I  explained  he  induced  some  other  firms  to 
use  all  I  can  paint,  too.  They  pay  me  very  well.  I  made  enough 
each  month  to  help  Mary  when  she  went  behind. 

Ollivant.  [Incredulously.]  You !  After  you  heard  me  say 
when  she  left  I  wouldn't  give  her  a  cent.^* 

Emily.  [Looking  fondly  at  Mary.]  You  were  keeping  Ben, 
weren't  you  ? 

Ollivant.     But — that's — that's  different. 

Emily.     I  didn't  see  why  we  shouldn't  help  both  our  children. 

Ollivant.  [Perplexed  by  this  he  turns  to  Mary.]  And  you 
took  it? 

;\L\ry.     Yes. 

Ollivant.     You  knew  how  she  got  the  money  ? 

Mary.     Yes. 

Ollivant.  Your  mother  working  herself  sick  for  you,  and 
you  took  it  ? 

Emily.     I  told  you  I've  never  been  so  happy. 

Mary,  [tiimply.]  I  couldn't  bargain  with  what  I  felt.  I 
had  to  study.     I'd  have  taken  anything,  gotten  it  anywhere.     I 


58  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

had  to  live.  You  didn't  help  me.  Ben  and  I  both  went  against 
your  will,  but  you  helped  him  because  he  was  your  son.  I  was 
only  your  daughter. 

[Ollivant  eyes  her  and  seems  to  he  struggling  with  himself. 
He  is  silent  a  long  while  as  they  both  watch  him.  Finally y 
after  several  efforts  he  speaks  with  emotion. 

Ollivant.  Mary,  I — I  didn't  realize  how  much  you  meant 
to  me  till — till  I  thought  of  what  might  have  happened  to  you 
without  my  help.  Would — would  you  have  stayed  on  in  the  city 
if — if  your  mother  hadn't  helped  you  ? 

Mary.     [Firmly.]     Yes,  father;  I  would  have  stayed  on. 

Ollivant.  [After  a  pause.]  Then  I  guess  what  you  feel  is 
stronger  than  all  your  mother  and  I  tried  to  teach  you.  .  .  .  Are 
you  too  proud  to  take  help  from  me — now  ? 

Mary.  [Simply.]  No,  father;  till  I  succeed.  Then  I'll  pay 
you  back  like  Ben  promised. 

Oluvant.  [Hurt.]  You  don't  think  it  was  the  money, 
daughter?  It  would  have  cost  to  keep  you  here.  It  wasn't 
that. 

Mary.  No;  it  was  your  father  speaking  and  his  father  and 
his  father.  [Looking  away  wistfully.]  And  perhaps  I  was  speak- 
ing for  those  before  me  who  were  silent  or  couldn't  be  heard. 

Ollivant.  [With  sincerity.]  I  don't  exactly  understand  that 
any  more  than  the  feeling  you  spoke  of  driving  you  from  home. 
But  I  do  see  what  you  mean  about  brothers  and  sisters.  You 
seem  to  think  boys  and  girls  are  the  same.  But  they're  not. 
Men  and  women  are  different.  You  may  not  know  it,  but  your 
mother  had  foolish  ideas  like  you  have  when  I  first  knew  her. 
She  was  poor  and  didn't  have  a  mother  to  support  her,  and  she 
had  to  work  for  a  living.  She'd  about  given  up  when  I  met  her 
— trying  to  work  at  night  to  feed  herself  in  the  day  while  study- 
ing. But  she  was  sensible;  when  a  good  man  came  along  who 
could  support  her  she  married  him  and  settled  down.  Look  how 
happy  she's  been  here  with  a  home  of  her  own  that  is  a  home — 


TRADITION  59 

with  associations  and  children.  Where  would  she  be,  struggling 
to-duy  trying  to  paint  pictures  for  a  living?  Why,  there's  lots 
of  men  who  can  paint  pictures,  and  too  few  good  wives  for  hard- 
working, decent  men  who  want  a  family — which  is  God's  law. 
You'll  find  that  out  one  of  these  days  and  you'll  give  yourself  as 
she  did.  Some  day  a  man  will  come  and  you'll  want  to  marry 
him.  How  could  you  if  you  keep  on  with  your  work,  going  about 
the  country  ? 

Mary.     [Quietly.]     You  leave  mother  at  times,  don't  you .? 

Ollivant.     I've  got  to. 

Mary.     So  may  I. 

Ollivant.     And  the  children  ? 

Mary.     They'd  have  a  share  of  my  life. 

Ollivant.  A  mighty  big  share  if  you're  human,  I  tell  you. 
Ask  your  mother  if  you  think  they're  easy  coming  and  bringing 
up. 

Mary.  And  now  they've  left  her.  Dear  mother,  what  has 
she  to  do  ? 

Ollivant.  Well,  if  you  ever  get  a  husband  with  those  ideas 
of  yours  you'll  see  what  a  wife  has  to  do.  [He  goes  to  her.]  Mary, 
it  isn't  easy,  all  this  you've  been  saying.  But  your  mother  and  I 
are  left  alone,  and  perhaps  we  have  got  different  views  than  you. 
But  if  ever  you  do  see  it  our  way,  and  give  up  or  fail — well,  come 
back  to  us,  understand  ? 

Mary.  [Going  to  him  and  kissing  him.]  I  understand  how 
hard  it  was  for  you  to  say  that.  And  remember  I  may  come 
back  a  success. 

Ollivant.  Yes.  I  suppose  they  all  think  that;  it's  what 
keeps  them  going.  But  some  day,  when  you're  in  love  and 
marry,  you'll  see  it  all  differently. 

Mary.  Father,  what  if  the  man  does  not  come — or  the  chil- 
dren ? 

Ollivant.  Why —  [He  halts  as  though  unable  to  answer  her.] 
Nonsense.     He'll  come,  never  fear;  they  always  do. 


60  GEORGE    MIDDLETON 

Mart.     I  wonder. 

Ollivant.  [He  goes  affectionately  to  Emily,  who  has  been  star- 
ing before  her  during  this.]  Emily,  dear.  No  wonder  the  flowers 
have  been  neglected.  Well,  you'll  have  time  to  spraj'  those  roses 
yourself.  I'll  get  the  spray  mixture  to-morrow.  [Kisses  her  ten- 
derly.] Painting  paper  dolls  with  a  change  of  clothes !  When  I 
might  have  been  sending  her  the  money  without  ever  feeling  it. 
No  more  of  that,  dear;  you  don't  have  to  now.  I  shan't  let  you 
get  tired  and  sick.  That's  one  thing  I  draw  the  line  at.  [He 
pats  her  again,  looks  at  his  watch,  and  then  goes  slowly  over  to  the 
window-doors.]  Well,  it's  getting  late.  I'll  lock  up.  [Looking 
up  at  sky.]     Paper  says  it  will  rain  to-morrow. 

Emily.  [Very  quietly  so  only  Mary  can  hear.]  At  the  art 
school  they  said  I  had  a  lovely  sense  of  color.  Your  father  is  so 
kind;  but  he  doesn't  know  how  much  I  enjoyed  painting  again — 
even  those  paper  dolls. 

Mary.     [Comprehending  in  surprise.]     Mother !     You,  too  ? 

Emily.     [Fearing  lest  Ollivant  should  hear.]     Sh ! 

[Ollivant  closes  the  doors  and  eyes  the  women  tJioughtfully. 

Ollivant.  Better  fasten  the  other  windows  when  you  come. 
Good-night. 

[He  goes  out  slowly  as  mother  and  daughter  sit  there  together. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


THE  EXCHANGE 

BY 

ALTHEA  THURSTON 


The  Exchange  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  Althea  Thurston.  This 
play  is  one  of  the  farces  written  in  the  Course  in  Dramatic  Composition 
(English  109)  in  the  University  of  Utah.  For  permission  to  perform, 
address  B.  Roland  Lewis,  Department  of  English,  University  of  Utah, 
Salt  Lake  City,  Utah. 


ALTHEA  THURSTON 

Althea  Cooms-Thiirston,  one  of  the  promising  writers  of  the 
younger  set  of  American  dramatists,  was  born  in  Iowa,  but  soon 
moved  with  her  parents  to  Colorado,  where  she  spent  her  girl- 
hood. She  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  Colorado 
Springs  and  Denver.  Her  collegiate  training  was  received  in 
the  University  of  Utah,  Salt  Lake  City.  In  1902  she  married 
Walter  R.  Thurston,  a  well-known  engineer.  At  present  she  re- 
sides in  Dallas,  Texas. 

Mrs.  Thurston  has  travelled  widely  and  has  resided  for  periods 
of  time  in  Mexico  City  and  Havana,  Cuba.  She  is  an  able  lin- 
guist and  has  made  a  special  study  of  her  native  English  tongue 
and  of  Spanish  and  French,  all  of  which  she  uses  fluently. 

From  childhood  she  has  shown  dramatic  ability.  Her  dra- 
matic composition  has  been  more  or  less  directly  associated  with 
the  courses  in  pla;y'writing  and  the  history  of  the  drama  which 
she  completed  in  the  University  of  Utah.  Among  her  one-act 
plays  are  When  a  Man's  Hungry^  And  the  Devil  Laughs,  and  The 
Exchange. 

Mrs.  Thurston  has  an  aptitude  for  delicate  and  satirical  farce. 
The  Exchange  is  an  excellent  example  of  farce-comedy  in  the 
contemporary  one-act  play. 


CHARACTERS 

Judge,  the  exchanger  of  miseries 
Imp,  office  hoy  to  the  Judge 
A  Poor  Man 
A  Vain  Woman 
A  Rich  Citizen 


THE  EXCHANGE* 
SCENE  I 

The  curtain  rises  upon  an  office  scene.  Seemingly  there  is  nothing 
unusual  about  this  office:  it  has  tables,  chairs,  a  filing  cabinet, 
and  a  hat-rack.  A  portion  of  the  office  is  railed  off  at  the  right. 
Within  this  enclosed  space  is  a  commodious  desk  and  sivivel- 
chair ;  and  the  filing  cabinet  stands  against  the  icall.  This 
railed-off  portion  of  the  office  belongs,  exclusively,  to  the  Judge. 
Here  he  is  wont  to  spend  many  hours — sometimes  to  read  or 
u>rite,  and  again,  perhaps,  he  will  just  sit  and  ponder  upon  the 
vagaries  of  mankind.  The  Judge  is  a  tall,  spare  man  with 
rather  long  gray  hair,  which  shows'heneath  the  skull-cap  that 
he  always  icears.  When  we  first  see  him,  he  is  reading  a  letter , 
and  evidently  he  is  not  pleased,  for  he  is  tapping  with  impatient 
fingers  upon  his  desk. 

At  the  left  of  the  stage  is  a  heavily  curtained  door  ichich  leads  to  an 
inner  room.  At  centre  rear  is  another  door  lohich  evidently 
leads  to  the  street,  as  it  is  through  this  door  that  the  Poor  IVIan, 
the  Vain  Womax,  and  the  Rich  Citizen  will  presently  enter, 
each  upon  his  special  quest.  The  hat-rack  stands  near  the 
street  door,  and  we  glimpse  a  soft  black  hat  and  a  long  black 
overcoat  hanging  upon  it. 

Down  stage  to  the  left  is  a  fiat-topped  desk,  littered  with  papers  and 
letters.  This  desk  has  two  large  drawers,  wherein  a  number  of 
miscellaneous  articles  might  be  kept.  It  is  at  this  desk  that  we 
catch  our  first  glimpse  of  Imp.     lie  is  busily  writing  in  a  huge 

*  Copyright,  1921.     All  rights  reserved. 
65 


66  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

ledger,  and  he  seems  to  be  enjoying  his  work,  for  he  chiicJcles  the 
while.  Imp  is  a  little  rogue  ;  he  looks  it  and  acts  it,  and  we  feel 
that  he  has  a  Mephistophelian  spirit.  He  luears  a  dark-green 
tight-fitting  uniform,  trimmed  with  red  braid.  His  saucy  little 
round  cap  is  always  cocked  over  one  eye.  He  is  ever  chuckling 
impishly,  and  we  feel  that  he  is  slyly  gleeful  over  the  weaknesses 
of  mankind  and  the  difficulties  that  beset  them. 

Imp.  [Throws  down  his  pen,  chuckles,  and  half  standing  on  the 
rungs  of  his  chair  and  balancing  himself  against  his  desk,  surveys 
the  ledger.]  Your  honor,  I've  all  the  miseries  listed  to  date  and 
a  fine  lot  there  is  to  choose  from.  Everything  from  bunions  to 
old  wives  for  exchange. 

Judge.  [Scowls  and  impatiently  taps  the  letter  he  is  reading.^ 
Here  is  another  one.  A  woman  suspects  her  husband  of  a  mis- 
alliance. Wants  to  catch  him,  but  is  so  crippled  with  rheuma- 
tism she  can't  get  about.  Wants  us  to  exchange  her  rheumatism 
for  something  that  won't  interfere  with  either  her  walking  or  her 
eyesight. 

Imp.  [Referring  to  the  ledger  and  running  his  finger  along  the 
lines.]  We  have  a  defective  heart  or  a  lazy  liver  that  we  could 
give  her. 

Judge.  [Irritably  tossing  the  letter  over  to  Imp.]  She  would 
not  be  satisfied.  People  never  are.  They  always  want  to 
change  their  miseries,  but  never  their  vices.  Each  thinks  his 
own  cross  heavier  than  others  have  to  bear,  but  he  is  very  will- 
ing to  make  light  of  his  own  weaknesses  and  shortcomings.  He 
thinks  they  are  not  half  so  bad  as  his  neighbor's.  I  have  tried 
for  years  to  aid  distressed  humanity,  but  I  can't  satisfy  them. 
I  am  growing  tired  of  it  all.  Imp.     People  need  a  lesson    and 

they're  going  to  get  it,  too.     I  am  going  to 

[Knock  is  heard  at  the  street  door.  Judge  sighs,  turns  to  his 
desk  and  begins  to  write.  Imp  sweeps  the  litter  of  papers 
on  his  desk  into  a  drawer,  closes  ledger,  and  goes  to  answer 
knock. 


THE    EXCHANGE  67 

Imp.     Here  comes  another  misery. 

[Imp  opens  the  door  to  admit  the  Poor  Man,  who  is  very 
shabbily  dressed.  He  hesitates,  looks  around  the  room  as 
if  he  icere  in  the  wrong  place,  and  then  addresses  Imp  in 
a  loud  whisper. 

Poor  IVIan.  [Indicating  the  Judge  wiih  a  motion  of  his  head.] 
Is  that  him  ? 

Imp.     [Whispering  loudly  his  reply.]     Yes,  that  is  his  honor. 

Poor  Man.  [Still  whispering  and  showing  signs  of  nervous- 
ness.]    Do  I  dare  speak  to  him  ? 

Imp.  [Enjoying  the  situation  and  still  whispering.]  Yes,  but 
be  careful  what  you  say. 

Poor  Man.  [Talxcs  off  his  hat,  approaches  slowly  to  the  rail- 
ing, and  speaks  humbly.]  Your  honor,  I —  [Swalloivs  hard,  clears 
throat.]     Your  honor,  I've  a  little  favor — to  ask  of  you. 

Judge.     [Looking  coldly  at  the  Poor  Man.]     Well  ? 

Poor  Man.  You  see,  your  honor,  I've  been  poor  all  my  life. 
I've  never  had  much  fun.  I  don't  ask  for  a  lot  of  money,  but — 
I  would  like  enough  so  that  I  could  have  some  swell  clothes,  and 
— so  that  I  could  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  with  the  boys.  You 
know,  I  just  want  to  have  a  good  time.  Do  you  think  you  could 
fix  it  for  me.  Judge  ? 

Judge.  [Gazes  at  him  sternly  for  a  moment.]  So  you  just  want 
to  have  a  good  time  ?  Want  me  to  take  away  your  poverty  ?  I 
suppose  you  have  no  moral  weakness  you  want  to  change,  no 
defects  in  your  character  that  you  want  to  better  ? 

Poor  Man.  [Stammering  and  twirling  his  hat.]  Why,  w-hy. 
Judge,  I — I  am  not  a  bad  man.  Of — of  course,  I  have  my  faults, 
but  then — I've  never  committed  any  crimes.  I  guess  I  stack  up 
pretty  fair  as  men  go.  I'm  just  awful  tired  of  being  poor  and 
never  having  any  fun.  Couldn't  you  help  me  out  on  that  point. 
Judge  ? 

Judge.     [Sighs  wearily  and  turns  to  Imp.]     Bring  me  the  ledger. 

[Imp  gives  him  the  ledger  in  which  he  has  been  writing. 

Judge  opens  it,  and  then  speaks  sharply  to  the  Poor  Man. 


68  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

Judge.  You  understand,  do  you,  my  good  man,  that  if  I 
take  away  your  poverty  and  give  you  enough  money  for  your 
good  time,  you  will  have  to  accept  another  misery  ? 

Poor  Man.  [Eagerly.]  Yes,  your  honor,  that's  all  right. 
I'm  willing. 

Judge.  [Scanning  ledger.]  Very  well.  Let  us  see.  Here  is 
paralysis. 

Poor  Man.  [Hesitatingly.]  Well,  I — I  couldn't  have  a — 
very  good  time,  if — if  I  was  paralyzed. 

Judge.  [Shortly.]  No.  I  suppose  not.  How  about  a  glass 
eye? 

Poor  IMan.  [Anxiotisly.]  Please,  your  honor,  if  I'm  going 
to  have  a  good  time  I  need  two  good  eyes.  I  don't  want  to  miss 
anything. 

Judge.  [Wearily  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  ledger.]  A  man 
left  his  wife  here  for  exchange,  perhaps  you  would  like  her. 

Poor  Man.  [Shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  nervously 
twirling  his  hat.]  Oh,  Judge,  oh,  no,  please,  no.  I  don't  want 
anybody's  old  cast-off  wife. 

Judge.  [Becoming  exasperated.]  Well,  choose  something,  and 
be  quick  about  it.  Here  is  lumbago,  gout,  fatness,  old  age, 
and 

Imp.  [Interrupting,  and  walking  qiiicJdy  over  to  the  railing.] 
Excuse  me,  Judge,  but  maybe  the  gentleman  would  like  the  in- 
digestion that  Mr.  Potter  left  when  he  took  old  IVIrs.  Pratt's 
fallen  arches. 

Poor  Man.  [Eagerly.]  Indigestion?  Sure!  That  will  be 
fine !  I  won't  mind  a  litUe  thing  like  indigestion  if  I  can  get  rid 
of  my  poverty. 

Judge.  [Sternly.]  Very  well.  Raise  your  right  hand.  Re- 
peat after  me:  "I  swear  to  accept  indigestion  for  better  or  for 
worse  as  my  portion  of  the  world's  miseries,  so  help  me  God." 

Poor  Man.  [Solemnly.]  "I  swear  to  accept  indigestion  for 
better  or  for  worse  as  my  portion  of  the  world's  miseries,  so  help 
me  God." 


THE    EXCHANGE  G9 

Judge.     [To  Imp.]     Show   this  gentleman  to  the  changing- 
room. 

[Poor  IVLajnt  follows  Imp,  who  conducts  him  to  the  heavily 

curtained  door.     The  Poor  Man  throws  out  his  chest  and 

swaggers  a  bit,  as  a  man  might  who  had  suddenly  ccmie 

into  a  fortune.     Imp  swaggers  along  ivith  him. 

Imp.     Won't  you  have  a  grand  time,  though.     I'll  get  you  a 

menu  card,  so  that  you  can  be  picking  out  your  dinner. 

Poor  IVIan.     [Joyfully  slapping  Imp  on  the  back.]     Good  idea, 
and  I'll  pick  out  a  regular  banquet. 

[Pausing  a  moment  before  he  passes  through  the  curtains,  he 
smiles  and  smacks  his  lips  in  anticipation.     Exit. 
Judge.     [Speaks  disgustedly  to  Imp.]     There  you  are !     He's 
perfectly  satisfied  with  his  morals.     Has  no  defects  in  his  char- 
acter.    Just  wants  to  have  a  good  time. 

[Sighs  heavily  and  turns  back  to  his  writing.     laip  nods  his 

head  in  agreement  and  chuckles  slyly. 

[The  street  door  opens  slowly  and  the  Vain  Woman  stands 

upon  the  threshold.     She  does  not  enter  at  once,  but  stands 

posing — presumably  she  desires  to  attract  attention,  and 

she  is  worthy  of  it.     She  has  a  superb  figure,  and  her 

rich  gowning  enhances  it.     Her  fair  face  reveals  a  shallow 

vrettiness,  but  the  wrinkles  of  age  are  beginning  to  leave 

telltale  lines  upon  its  smoothness.    As  Imp  hurries  forward 

to  usher  her  in,  she  siveeps  grandly  past  him  to  the  centre  of 

the  stage.     Imp  stops  near  the  door,  with  his  hands  on  his 

hips,  staring  after  her,  then  takes  a  few  steps  in  imitation 

of  her.     She  turns  around  slowly  and,  sauntering  over  to 

the  railing,  coughs  affectedly,  a?id  as  the  Judge  rises  and 

bows  curtly,  she  speaks  in  a  coaxing  manner. 

Vain  Woman.     Judge,  I  have  heard  that  you  are  very  kind, 

and  I  have  been  told  that  you  help  people  out  of  their  troubles, 

so  I  have  a  little  favor  to  ask  of  you. 

Judge.     [Coldly.]     Yes,  I  supposed  so;  go  on. 

Vain  Wosian.     [Archly.]     Well,  you  know  that  I  am  a  famous 


70  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

beauty;  in  fact,  both  my  face  and  my  form  are  considered  very 
lovely.  [She  turns  around  slowly  that  he  may  see  for  himself.] 
Great  and  celebrated  men  have  worshipped  at  my  feet.  I  simply 
cannot  live  without  admiration.  It  is  my  very  life.  But,  Judge 
[plaintively],  horrid  wrinkles  are  beginning  to  show  in  my  face. 
[Intensely.]  Oh,  I  would  give  anything,  do  anything,  to  have  a 
smooth,  youthful  face  once  more.  Please,  oh,  please,  won't  you 
take  away  these  wrinkles  [touching  her  face  with  her  fingers]  and 
give  me  something  in  their  stead. 

Judge.  [Looking  directly  at  her  and  speaking  coldly.]  Are  you 
satisfied  with  yourself  in  other  ways  ?  Is  your  character  as  beau- 
tiful as  your  face  ?  Have  you  no  faults  or  weaknesses  that  you 
want  exchanged  ? 

Vain  Woman.  [Uncertainly.]  Why,  I — don't  know  what  you 
mean.  I  am  just  as  good  as  any  other  woman  and  lots  better 
than  some  I  know.  I  go  to  church,  and  I  subscribe  to  the  chari- 
ties, and  I  belong  to  the  best  clubs.  [Anxiously.]  Oh,  please. 
Judge,  it's  these  wrinkles  that  make  me  so  unhappy.  Won't  you 
exchange  them  ?  You  don't  want  me  to  be  unhappy,  do  you  ? 
Please  take  them  away. 

Judge.  [Wearily  looking  over  the  ledger.]  Oh,  very  well,  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do  for  you.  [To  Imp.]  Fetch  a  chair  for  this 
lady. 

[Imp  gives  her  a  chair  and  she  sits  facing  front.  Imp  returns 
to  his  desk,  perches  himself  upon  it  and  watches  the  Vain 
Woman  interestedly.  Judge  turns  over  the  leaves  of  the 
ledger. 

Judge.  I  have  a  goitre  that  I  could  exchange  for  your 
wrinkles. 

Vain  Woman.  [Protestingly,  clasping  her  hands  to  her  throat.] 
Oh,  heavens,  no !  That  would  ruin  my  beautiful  throat.  See. 
[Throwing  back  her  fur  and  exposing  her  neck  in  a  low-cut  gown.] 
I  have  a  lovely  neck.     [Imp  makes  an  exaggerated  attempt  to  see. 

Judge.  [Glances  coldly  at  her  and  then  scans  ledger  again.] 
Well,  how  about  hay-fever? 


THE    EXCHANGE  71 

Vain  Woman.  [Reproachfully.]  Oh,  Judge,  how  car-  you 
suggest  such  a  thing !  Watery  eyes  and  a  red  nose,  the  worst 
enemy  of  beauty  there  is.  I  simply  couldn't  think  of  it.  I  want 
something  that  won't  show. 

Judge.  [Disgustedly  turns  to  filing  cabinet  and  looks  through  a 
series  of  cards,  withdraws  oney  and  turns  hack  to  Vain  Woman.] 
Perhaps  this  will  suit  you.  [Refers  to  card.]  A  woman  has 
grown  very  tired  of  her  husband  and  wants  to  exchange  him  for 
some  other  burden. 

Vain  Woman.  [Indignantly.]  What !  I  accept  a  man  that 
some  other  woman  doesn't  want !  Certainly  not !  I  prefer  one 
that  some  other  woman  does  want. 

Judge.  [Irritated,  puts  the  card  back  in  its  place,  and  turns 
upon  the  Vain  Woman  crossly.]  I  fear  that  I  cannot  please  you 
and  I  do  not  have  time  to 

Imp.  [Interrupts  and  runs  over  to  the  railing,  speaking  sooth- 
ingly to  the  Judge.]  Excuse  me,  Judge,  but  maybe  the  lady 
would  like  deafness  in  exchange  for  her  wrinkles.  Deafness 
wouldn't  show,  so  it  couldn't  spoil  her  face  or  her  elegant  figure. 

Judge.  [Wearily.]  No,  it  won't  show.  Deafness  ought  to 
be  a  good  thing  for  you. 

Vain  Woman.  [Consideringly.]  Why — yes — that  might  do. 
But — well,  it  wouldn't  show.  I've  a  notion  to  take  it.  [Pau^e 
— she  seems  to  consider  and  meditate.  The  Judge  stares  at  her 
coldly.  Lmp  grins  impudently.  She  rises  leisurely,  sighs.]  All 
right.     I'll  accept  it. 

Judge.  [Sharply.]  Hold  up  your  right  hand.  [She  raises 
hand.]  Do  you  swear  to  accept  deafness  for  better  or  for  worse, 
as  your  portion  of  the  world's  miseries,  so  help  you  God  ? 

Vain  Woman.     [Sweetly.]    Oh,  yes.     I  do.  Judge. 

Judge.     [To  Imp.]     Show  the  lady  to  the  changing-room. 

Imp.  [Escorts  her  to  the  curtained  door  with  rather  mock  defer- 
ence.] No,  deafness  won't  show  at  all,  and  you'll  have  'em  all 
crazy  about  you.  [Drav)s  aside  curtains  for  her  to  pass.]  Take 
second  booth  to  your  right. 


72  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

[Vain  Woman  stands  posing  a  moment.     She  smiles  radi- 
antly and  pats  her  cheeks  softly  with  her  hands,  then  with 
a  long-drawn  sigh  of  happiness,  she  exits.     Imp  bows  low 
and  mockingly  after  her  vanishing  form,  his  hand  on  his 
heart. 
Judge.     [Sarcastically.]     Do     her     faults     or     shortcomings 
trouble  her  ?     Not  at  all !     Perfectly  satisfied  with  herself,  ex- 
cept for  a  few  wrinkles  in  her  face.     Vain  women !     Bah ! 
Imp.     Yes,  sir;  women  have  queer  notions. 

[An  imperative  rap  at  the  street-door,  immediately  followed 
by  the  rapper's  abrupt  entrance.  We  see  an  important- 
appearing  personage.  His  arrogant  bearing  and  com- 
manding pose  lead  us  to  believe  that  he  is  accustomed  to 
prompt  attention.  It  is  the  Rich  Citizen,  exceedingly 
well  groomed.  His  manner  is  lordly,  but  he  addresses  the 
Judge  in  a  bored  tone.  When  Imp  scampers  to  meet  him, 
the  Rich  Citizen  hands  him  his  hat  and  cane  and  turns 
at  once  to  the  Judge.  Imp  examines  the  hat  and  cane 
critically,  hangs  them  on  the  hat-rack,  and  returns  to  his 
desk,  where  he  again  perches  to  watch  the  Rich  Citizen. 
Rich  Citizen.  [Lighting  a  cigarette.]  I  am  addressing  the 
Judge,  am  I  not  ? 

Judge.     [Shortly.]     You  are. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Languidly,  between  puffs  of  his  cigarette.] 
Well,  Judge,  life  has  become  rather  boresome,  so  I  thought  I 
would  drop  in  and  ask  you  to  do  me  a  small  favor. 

Judge.     [Wearily.]    Yes?    We —    W^hat  is  your  grievance? 
Rich  Citizen.     [Nonchalantly.]    Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  griev- 
ance exactly.     You  see,  my  dear  Judge,  it  is  this  way.     I  am  a 
very  rich  and  influential  citizen,  a  prominent  member  of  society, 
and  I  am  very  much  sought  after. 
Judge.     [Frigidly.]    Oh,  indeed ! 
Rich  Citizen.     [In  a  very  bored  manner.]     Yes.     Women  run 


THE    EXCHANGE  73 

after  me  day  and  night.  Ambitious  mothers  tlirow  their  mar- 
riageable daughters  at  my  head.  Men  seek  my  advice  on  all 
matters.     I  am  compelled  to  head  this  and  that  committee. 

[Smokes  languidly. 

Judge.     [Sharply.]     Well,  go  on. 

Rich  Citizen.  Really,  Judge,  my  prestige  has  become  a  bur- 
den. I  want  to  get  away  from  it  all.  I  would  like  to  become  a 
plain,  ordinary  man  with  an  humble  vocation,  the  humbler  the 
better,  so  that  people  will  cease  bothering  me. 

Judge.  [Sarcastically.]  Is  your  prestige  all  that  troubles 
you  ?  Don't  worry  about  your  morals,  I  suppose.  Satisfied 
with  your  habits  and  character  ? 

Rich  Citizen.  [Coldly.]  What  have  my  habits  or  morals 
got  to  do  with  my  request.'*  [Scornfully.]  Certainly  I  am  not 
one  of  your  saintly  men.  I  live  as  a  man  of  my  station  should 
live,  and  I  think  I  measure  up  very  well  with  the  best  of  them. 
I  am  simply  bored  and  I  would  like  a  change.  I  would  like  to  be 
a  plain  man  with  an  humble  calling. 

Judge.  [Ironically.]  I'll  see  what  we  have  in  humble  callings. 
[He  looks  at  the  ledger,  turning  the  leaves  over  slowly.]  We  have 
several  bartenders'  vocations. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Wearily  smoking.]  No.  Too  manj^  people 
about  all  the  time,  and  too  much  noise. 

Judge.     Well,  here's  a  janitor's  job  open  to  you. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Impatiently  throwing  away  his  cigarette.l  No. 
I  don't  like  that,  either.  Too  confining.  Too  many  people  bick- 
ering at  you  all  the  time.  I  want  to  get  out  in  the  open,  away 
from  crowds. 

Judge.  [Sighing,  and  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  ledger,  then 
hopefully.]  Here's  the  very  thing  for  you,  then — postman  in  a 
rural  district. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Showing  vexation.]  No,  no,  no.  Too  many 
old  women  that  want  to  gossip.     I  tell  you,  I  want  to  get  away 


74  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

from  women.  Haven't  you  something  peaceful  and  quiet;  some- 
thing that  would  take  me  out  in  the  quiet  of  the  early  morning, 
when  the  birds  are  singing? 

Judge.  [Closing  ledger  with  a  hang,  and  rising.]  Well,  you're 
too  particular,  and  I  have  not  time  to  bother  with  you.  I  bid 
you  good  after 

Imp.  [Slides  from  his  desk,  runs  to  railing,  and  speaks  suavely.] 
Excuse  me.  Judge,  but  maybe  the  gentleman  would  like  the 
vocation  of  milkman.  That  is  early-morning  work.  And,  you 
remember,  a  milkman  left  his  job  here  when  he  took  that  old, 
worn-out  senator's  position. 

Judge.  [Sharply,  to  Rich  Citizen.]  Well,  how  about  it.^* 
Does  a  milkman's  vocation  suit  you  ?  It's  early-morning  hours, 
fresh  air,  and  no  people  about. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Musingly.]  Well,  the  very  simplicity  and 
quietness  of  it  is  its  charm.  It  rather  appeals  to  me.  [He  pon- 
ders a  moment]     Yes,  by  Jove,  I'll  take  it. 

Judge.  [Sternly.]  Hold  up  your  right  hand.  "Do  you  sol- 
emnly swear  to  accept,  for  better  or  for  worse,  the  vocation  of 
milkman  as  your  lot  in  life,  so  help  you  God.?" 

Rich  Citizen.     I  do. 

Judge.  [To  Imp.]  Show  this  gentleman  to  the  changing- 
room. 

Imp.  [While  escorting  him  to  the  curtained  door.]  Yes,  sir,  you 
will  lead  the  simple  life.  Fresh  air,  fresh  milk,  no  people,  just 
cows — and  they  can't  talk.  [Holding  aside  the  curtains.]  Third 
booth,  sir. 

Rich  Citizen.  [Musingly.]  The  simple  life — peace  and 
quietness.  [Exit 

Judge.  [In  disgust]  It's  no  use,  Imp.  They  all  cling  to 
their  vices,  but  they  are  Very  keen  to  change  some  little  cross  or 
condition  that  vexes  them — or  think  vexes  them. 

Imp.  It's  strange  that  people  always  want  something  differ- 
ent from  what  they  have. 


THE    EXCHANGE  75 

[Imp  ofens  a  drawer  in  his  desk  and  takes  out  a  hotth,  evi- 
dently filled  with  tablets,  which  he  holds  up,  shaking  it  and 
chuckling.     He  hunts  in  the  drawer  again,  and  this  time 
brings  forth  a  huge  ear-trumpet,  which  he  chucklingly 
places  on  his  table  beside  the  bottle  of  tablets. 
Judge.     Don't  let  any  more  in,  Imp.     I  can't  stand  another 
one  to-day.     I  am  going  to  write  a  letter  and  then  go  home. 
Imp.     All  right,  sir. 

Judge.  I  am  feeling  very  tired;  what  I  really  need  is  a  vaca- 
tion. A  sea-trip  would  put  me  right.  By  the  way,  Imp,  where 
is  that  transatlantic  folder  that  I  told  you  to  get  ? 

[Imp  picks  up  the  folder  from  his  desk  and  takes  it  to  the 
Judge,  ivho  studies  it  attentively.     Imp  returns  to  his  own 
desk,  where  he  again  looks  in  a  drawer  and  brings  forth 
a  menu  card,  which  he  glances  over,   grinning  mischie- 
vously. 
[The  former  Poor  Man  re-enters  from  the  changing -room,. 
He  is  well  dressed,  and  taking  a  well-filled  wallet  from  his 
pocket,  he  looks  at  it  gloatingly.     However,  from  time  to 
time,  a  shade  of  annoyance  passes  over  his  face,  and  he 
puts  his  hand  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach.     Imp  runs  to  meet 
him,  and  hands  him  the  menu  that  he  has  been  reading. 
Imp.     Here's  a  menu  from  the  Gargoyle.     Say,  you  sure  do 
look  swell !  [Looking  him  over  admiringly. 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Grinning  happily. ]  Some  class  to  me 
now,  eh !  [Looking  at  menu.]  And  you  watch  me  pick  out  a  real 
dinner.  [Sits  down  at  left  front.]  First,  I'll  have  a  cocktail,  then 
— let's  see — I'll  have — another  cocktail.  Next,  oysters,  and  [he 
frowns  and  presses  his  hand  to  the  pit  of  his  stamax^h,  keeping 
up  a  massaging  motion] — green-turtle  soup,  sand  dabs — chicken 
breasts — 

[They  become  absorbed  over  the  menu. 

[The  Vain  Woman  re-enters  from  the  changing -ro(mi.     She 
now  has  a  smooth  face,  and  she  is  looking  at  herself  in  (? 


76  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

hand-glass,  smiling  and  touching  her  face  delightedly. 
She  walks  over  to  the  railing,  and  leans  over  it  to  the 
Judge.     He  looks  up  questioningly. 
Vain  Woman.     [Smiling.]    Oh,  I  am  so  happy  again.    Am  I 
not  beautiful  ? 

Judge.     [Pityingly.]    You  are  a  vain,  foolish  woman. 

[Since  she  is  deaf,  she  does  not  hear  his  words,  but  thinks  he 
is  complimenting  her.     She  smiles  at  him  coyly. 
Vain  Woman.    Ah,  Judge,  you  too  are  susceptible  to  my 
charms. 

[The  Judge,  in  great  exasperation,  puts  away  his  papers, 

thrusts  the  transatlantic  folder  in  his  pocket,  hastily  closes 

his  desk,  and  hurries  to  the  hat-rack,  puts  on  his  overcoat, 

slips  his  skull-cap  into  his  pocket  and  puts  on  his  soft 

black  hat.     Then,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  a 

wave  of  his  hand  indicative  of  disgust,  he  slips  quietly  out. 

{The  Vain  Woman  saunters  past  the  Former  Poor  Man, 

stops  near  him,  posing,  and  begins  to  put  on  her  gloves. 

He  looks  at  her  admiringly,  then,  getting  to  his  feet,  makes 

an  elaborate  but  awkward  bow. 

Former  Poor  Man.    Excuse  me,  lady,  but  I've  had  a  big 

piece  of  luck  to-day,  and  I  want  to  celebrate,  so  I  am  having  a 

big  dinner.     Won't  you  join  me  and  help  me  have  a  good  time  ? 

Vain  Woman.     [Looking  at  him  blankly,  and  trying  to  fathom 

what  he  has  said.]    Oh — ^why,  what  did  you  say  ? 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Hesitating,  and  a  bit  surprised.]  Why 
— er — I  said  that  I  had  a  big  piece  of  luck  to-day,  and  I  am  going 
to  celebrate.  I  am  having  a  fine  dinner,  and  I  just  asked  if — if 
— you  wouldn't  have  dinner  with  me. 

Vain  Woman.  [Still  looking  blank  and  a  little  confused,  then 
smiling  archly  and  acting  as  though  she  had  been  hearing  compli- 
ments, she  speaks  affectedly.]  Really,  do  you  think  so  ?  [Looking 
down  and  smoothing  her  dress.]  But,  then,  every  one  tells  me 
that  I  am. 


THE    EXCHANGE  77 

Former  Poor  Man.     [Puzzled,  turns  to  Imp  for  help.]     Just 
what  is  her  trouble,  Nut  ? 

Imp.     [Secretly  gleeful.]     She  is  stone-deaf.     You  had  better 
write  it. 

Former  Poor  INIan.     Never !    No  deaf  ones  for  me. 

[Turns  away  and  consults  menu  again.    Vain  Woman 
poses  and  frequently  looks  in  hand-glass  to  reassure  her- 
self. 
[Former  Rich  Citizen  re-enters  from  the  changing -room. 
He  is  dressed  in  shabby  overalls,  jumper,  and  an  old  hat. 
He  has  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.     He  walks  arrogantly  over 
to  the  Former  Poor  Man  and  addresses  him. 
Former  Rich  Citizen.     Give  me  a  light. 
Former  Poor  Man.     [Trying  to  live  up  to  his  fine  clothes  and 
wallet  full  of  money,  looks  the  Former  Rich  Citizen  over  snub- 
bingly.]     Say,  who  do  you  think  you  are  ?     You  light  out,  see  ? 
Former  Rich  Citizen.     [Very  much  surprised,  stands  non- 
plussed a  moment.]     Well,  upon  my  word,  I — I 

[He  stops  short  in  his  speech,  walks  haughtily  over  to  the 
railing,  where  he  stands  glowering  at  the  Former  Poor 
Man.     The  Former  Poor  Man  starts  for  the   street 
door,  but  Imp  runs  after  him,  waving  the  bottle  of  tablets. 
Imp.     I'll  sell  you  these  for  two  bits. 
Former  Poor  Man.     What  is  that  ? 
Imp.     [Grinning.]     Indigestion  tablets. 

Former  Poor  Man.     [Puts  his  hand  to  his  stomach  and  laughs 
a  little  lamely.]     Keep  'em;  I  don't  need  'em. 

[Vain  Woman  fastens  her  fur  and  starts  for  the  street-door, 
giving  the  Former  Rich  Citizen  a  snubbing  look  as  she 
passes  him.     Imp  stops  her  and  offers  the  ear-trumpet. 
Imp.     You  might  need  this;  I'll  sell  it  for  a  dollar. 

[She  does  not  hear  what  he  says,  but  she  looks  her  scorn  at 
the  ear-trumpet  and  walks  proudly  out. 


78  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

Former  Rich  Citizen.     [Fumbling  at  his  pocket,  as  if  to  find 
a  watch.]     Boy,  what  time  is  it?     I  haven't  my  watch. 
Imp.     [Grinning  mischievously.]     Time  to  milk  the  cows. 

[The  Former  Rich  Citizen  starts  angrily  toward  Imp,  then 
evidently  thinking  better  of  it,  shrugs  his  shoulders  and 
stalks  majestically  to  the  street-door.  He  pauses  with  it 
partly  open,  turns  as  if  to  speak  to  Imp,  drawing  himself 
up  haughtily — a  ludicrous  figure  in  his  shabby  outfit — 
then  he  goes  abruptly  out,  slamming  the  door. 
[Imp  doubles  himself  up  in  a  paroxysm  of  glee  as  the  curtain 
falls. 

SCENE  II 

A  fortnight  has  passed.  The  curtain  rises  upon  the  same  stage- 
setting.  The  Judge  is  not  about,  but  we  see  Imp  asleep  in  a 
chair.  All  seems  quiet  and  serene.  But  suddenly  the  street- 
door  opens  noisily,  and  the  Former  Poor  Man  bursts  into 
the  room.  He  is  panting,  as  though  he  had  been  running.  He 
is  haggard  and  seems  in  great  pain,  for  occasionally  he  moans. 
He  looks  wildly  about  the  room,  and  seeing  Imp  asleep  in  the 
chair,  he  rushes  to  him  and  shakes  him  roughly.  Imp  ivakes 
slowly,  yawning  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 
Former  Poor  Man.  [Frantically.]  The  Judge,  where  is  he  ? 
I  must  see  him  at  once. 

Imp.     [Yawning.]     You're  too  early.     He  isn't  down  yet. 

[Settles  himself  to  go  to  sleep  again. 

Former  Poor  Man.     [Walking   the  floor,    and   holding    his 

hands  to  his  stomach.]     Don't  go  to  sleep  again.     I'm  nearly 

crazy.     What  time  does  the  Judge  get  here?     Where  does  he 

live  ?     Can't  we  send  for  him  ? 

Imp.     [Indifferently.]     Oh,  he  is  liable  to  come  any  minute — 
and  then  he  may  not  come  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Former  Poor  Man.     [Pacing  the  floor,  moaning  and  rubbing 


THE    EXCHANGE  79 

hia  stomach,]    Oh,  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer.     It's  driving  me 
wild,  I  tell  you.     I  do  wish  the  Judge  would  come. 

Imp.  [Getting  up  from  his  chair  and  keeping  step  with  the 
Former  Poor  Man.]  What's  the  matter  ?  I  thought  all  you 
wanted  was  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry. 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Frantically  waving  his  arms.]  Eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry  be !  Everything  I  eat  gives  me  indi- 
gestion something  awful;  everything  I  drink  gives  it  to  me  worse. 
How  can  I  be  merry  when  I  am  in  this  torment  all  the  time? 
I  tell  you  this  pain  is  driving  me  mad.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  it 
quick.  Oh,  why  doesn't  the  Judge  come .'' 
Imp.  What's  the  Judge  got  to  do  with  it? 
Former  Poor  Man.  [Pathetically.]  I  am  going  to  beg  him 
to  take  back  this  indigestion  and  give  me  back  my  poverty.  It 
was  not  so  bad,  after  all;  not  nearly  so  bad  as  this  pain  in  my 
stomach. 

[The  street-door  opens  slowly,  and  a  sorrowful  woman  enters. 
She  is  weeping  softly.  It  is  the  Vain  Woman.  Gone  is 
her  posing  and  her  proud  manner.  She  walks  humbly  to 
the  railing,  and  not  seeing  the  Judge,  she  turns  to  Imp. 
The  Former  Poor  Man  looks  at  the  Vain  Woman, 
frowningly  muttering :  "Whafs  she  here  for?''  Then  he 
sits  down  at  the  left  and  rocks  back  and  forth  in  misery. 
Vain  Woman.  [Tearfully.]  I  must  see  the  Judge  right 
away,  please. 

Imp.     [Languidly.]     He  isn't  down  yet.     You're  too  earl 

Vain  Woman.  [Interrupting.]  Tell  him  that  it  is  very  im- 
portant, that  I  am  in  great  distress  and  that  he  must  see  me  at 
once. 

Imp.     [Loudly.]    I  said  that  he  was  not  down  yet. 

[Seeing  that  she  does  not  understand,  he  takes  a  writing-pad 
from  his  desk,  scribbles  a  few  words,  and  standing  in  front 
of  her,  holds  it  up  for  her  to  read. 


80  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

Vain  Woman.  [After  reading.]  Oh,  when  will  he  be  here? 
Can't  you  get  hun  to  come  right  away  ?     Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy. 

[She  walks  the  floor  in  agitation. 
[The  Former  Poor  Man  grunts  in  irritation  and  turns  his 
back  on  her. 
Vain  Woman.     I  cannot  hear  a  word  that  is  said  to  me.     No 
one  seems  to  want  me  around,  and  I  am  not  invited  out  any 
more.     I  have  the  feeling  that  people  are  making  fun  of  me  in- 
stead of  praising  my  beauty.     Oh,  it  is  dreadful  to  be  deaf. 
[Getting  hysterical]     I  want  the  Judge  to  take  away  this  deaf- 
ness.    I  would  rather  have  my  wrinkles. 

[Imp  shakes  his  head  in  pretended  sympathy y  saying :  *'  Too 

bad,  too  bad.'' 
[She  misunderstands  and  cries  out. 
Vain  Woman.     Has  the  Judge  given  away  my  wrinkles?     I 
want  them  back.     I  want  my  very  own  wrinkles,  too.     Wrinkles 
are  distinguished-looking.     [Beginning  to  sob.]     I  don't  want  to 
be  deaf  any  longer. 

Imp.  [Running  over  to  the  Former  Poor  Man.]  Say,  this 
lady  feels  very  bad.     Can't  you  cheer  her  up  a  little  ? 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Who  is  still  rocking  back  and  forth  vnth 
his  own  misery,  looks  up  at  Imp  in  disgust.]  Cheer — her — up  ! 
Me?     What's  the  joke? 

[The  Vain  Woman  ivalks  to  the  curtained  door,  looks  in  as 
if  seeking  something,  then  returns  to  a  chair,  where  she 
sits,  weeping  softly. 
[A  peculiar  thumping  is  heard  at  the  street-door.  The  For- 
mer Poor  Man  jumps  to  his  feet  in  expectancy,  hoping 
it  is  the  Judge.  Imp,  also,  stands  waiting.  The  door 
opens  as  though  the  person  that  opened  it  did  so  with 
difficulty.  The  Former  Rich  Citizen  hobbles  in.  He  is 
ragged  and  dirty,  and  one  foot  is  bandaged,  which  causes 
him  to  use  a  crutch.  He  carries  a  large  milk-can.  He 
hobbles  painfully  to  the  centre  of  the  stage.     The  Former 


THE    EXCHANGE  81 

Poor  Man  grunts  with  disappointment,  and  sits  down 
again,  rubbing  away  at  his  stomach.  The  Vain  Woman 
sits  with  bowed  head,  silently  weeping.  The  Former 
Rich  Citizen  looks  about,  then  addresses  Imp  in  a  rather 
husky  voice. 

Former  Rich  Citizen.  I  wish  to  see  the  Judge  at  once.  It 
is  most  urgent. 

Imp.  [With  an  ill-concealed  smile.]  You  can't  see  the  Judge 
at  once. 

Former  Rich  Citizen.  [Impatiently.]  Why  not?  I  told 
you  it  was  most  urgent. 

Imp.  [Grinning  openly.]  Because  he  isn't  here.  He  hasn't 
come  in  yet.     What's  your  trouble  ? 

Former  Rich  Citizen.  [Vehemently.]  Trouble!  Everything's 
the  trouble!  I  have  been  abused,  insulted,  overworked — even 
the  cows  have  kicked  me.  [Looking  down  at  his  bandaged  foot.] 
I  can't  stand  it.  I  won't  stand  it.  I  want  back  my  proper 
place  in  the  world,  where  I  am  respected,  and  where  I  can  rest 
and  sleep  and  mingle  with  my  kind. 

[He  hobbles  to  a  chair  and  sits  down  wearily. 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Getting  up  from  his  chair,  walks  over 
to  the  Former  Rich  Citizen,  waggles  his  finger  in  his  face  and 
speaks  fretfully.]  What  cause  have  you  to  squeal  so .?  If  you 
had  indigestion  like  I  have  all  the  time,  you  might  be  entitled  to 
raise  a  holler.  Why,  I  can't  eat  a  thing  without  having  the  most 
awful  pain  right  here  [puts  his  hand  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach],  and 
when  I  take  a  drink,  oh,  heavens,  it 

Former  Rich  Citizen.  [Interrupting  contemptuously.]  You 
big  baby,  howling  about  the  stomachache.  If  you  had  a  man- 
sized  trouble,  there  might  be  some  excuse  for  you.  Now  I,  who 
have  been  used  to  wealth  and  respect,  have  been  subjected  to 
the  most  gruelling  ordeals;  why,  in  that  dairy  there  were  a  mil- 
lion cows,  and  they  kicked  me,  and  horned  me,  and  I 

Vain  Woman.     [Walks  over  to  them,  interrupting  their  talk. 


82  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

and  speaks  in  a  voice  punctuated  ivith  sniffling  sohs.\     Have-^ 

[sniff]  either  of  you  gentlemen  [sniff]  ever  been  deaf?     [Sniffy 

sniff.]     It  is  a  terrible  thing  [sniff]  for  a  beautiful  woman  like  I 

am  [s?iiff]  to  have  such  an  affliction.  [Sniff,  sniff,  sniff. 

[Former  Rich  Citizen  shrugs  his  shoulders  indifferently 

and  limps  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage,  where  he  sits. 

Former  Poor  Man.     [Stalks  over  to  the  railing,  where  he  leans 

limply.]     Lord  deliver  me  from  a  sniffling  woman. 

[Imp,  who  is  perched  on  his  desk,  chuckles  wickedly  at  their 
sufferings.     Vain  Woman  sinks  dejectedly  into  the  chair 
vacated  by  the  Former  Rich  Citizen. 
{A  knock  is  heard  at  the  street-door.     The  Former  Poor 
Man  and  the  Former  Rich  Citizen  start  forward  eagerly, 
expecting  the  Judge.     Even  the  Vain  Woman,  seeing  the 
others  rise,  gets  to  her  feet  hopefully.     Imp  hastily  slides 
from  his  desk  and,  pulling  down  his  tight  little  jacket  and 
cocking  his  round  little  cap  a  little  more  over  one  eye,  goes 
to  see  who  knocks.     A  messenger  hands  him  a  letter  and 
silently  departs. 
Imp.     [Importantly.]     Letter  for  me  from  the  Judge. 
Former  Poor  Man.    A  letter !    Why  doesn't  he  come  him- 
self.? 

Former  Rich  Citizen.     Send  for  him,  boy. 
Imp.     [Grins  at  Former  Rich  Citizen  in  an  insolent  manner.] 
Well,  well,  I  wonder  what  the  Judge  is  writing  to  me  for.     It's 
queer  he  would  send  me  a  letter. 

[He  looks  the  letter  over  carefully,  both  sides ;  holds  it  up  to 
the  light,  smells  it,  shakes  it.     The  two  men  and  the  woman 
grow  more  and  more  nervous. 
Former  Poor  Man.     [Extremely    irritated.]     For    goodness' 
sake,  open  it  and  read  it. 

Former  Rich  Citizen.     Yes,  yes,  and  don't  be  so  long  about 
it. 

[Vain  Woman  simply  stands  pathetically  and  wails.     Imp 


THE    EXCHANGE  83 

walks  over  to  his  desk,  hunts  for  a  knife,  finally  finds  one; 
looks  letter  over  again,  then  slowly  slits  the  envelope  and 
draws  out  letter,  which  he  reads  silently  to  himself.     They 
are  breathlessly  waiting.     Imp  whistles  softly  to  himself. 
Imp.     Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that ! 

Former  Poor  Man.  [Excitedly.]  What  is  it — why  don't 
you  tell  us  ? 

Former  Rich  Citizen.  [Pounding  with  his  crutch  on  the 
floor.]     Come,  come,  don't  keep  me  waiting  like  this. 

Imp.  [Reads  letter  again,  silently,  chuckling.]  All  right.  Here 
it  is.     [Reads.] 

"My  dear  Imp: 

"I  have  tried  faithfully  for  years  to  aid  distressed  humanity, 
but  they  are  an  ungrateful  lot  of  fools,  and  I  wash  my  hands  of 
them.  When  this  letter  reaches  you  I  will  be  on  the  high  seas, 
and  I  am  never  coming  back.  So  write  'Finis'  in  the  big  old 
ledger  of  miseries,  and  shut  up  shop,  for  the  Exchange  is  closed 
— forever. 

Yours  in  disgust.  The  Judge." 

[They  all  stand  dazed  a  moment.     The  Vain  Woman,  sens- 
ing that  something  terrible  has  happened,  rushes  from  one 
to  the  other,  saying : "  What  is  it  ?     What  has  happened  ?  " 
Imp  gives  her  the  letter  to  read. 
Former  Poor  Man.     [In  a  perfect  frenzy.]    My  God !    Indi- 
gestion all  the  rest  of  my  days. 

Vain  Woman.     [After  reading  letter  collapses  in  a  chair,  hys- 
terically sobbing  out.]     Deaf,  always  deaf  !     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ! 
Former  Rich  Citizen.     [Leaning  heavily  on  his  crutch  and 
shaking  his  free  hand,  clenched  in  anger.]     This  is  an  outrage.     I 

am  rich  and  have  influence,  and  I  shall  take  steps  to — to 

[Imp  laughs  mockingly.     The  man  looks  down  at  his  milk- 
spattered  clothes,  his  bandaged  foot,  and,  letting  his  crutch 


84  ALTHEA    THURSTON 

jail  to  the  floor,  sinks  dejectedly  into  a  chair,  burying  his 

face  in  his  hands. 
[Imp  dangles  his  keys  and  opens  the  street-door,  as  an  invita- 
tion for  them  to  go.  The  Former  Poor  Man  is  the  first 
to  start,  moving  dazedly  and  breathing  hard.  Imp  offers 
him  the  bottle  of  indigestion  tablets  ;  the  man  grasps  them 
eagerly,  tipping  Imp,  who  chuckles  as  he  pockets  the 
money.  The  Former  Poor  Man  takes  a  tablet  as  he 
exits.  The  Vain  Woman,  bowed  with  sorrow,  moves 
slowly  toward  the  door.  Imp  touches  her  arm  and  offers 
the  ear-trumpet.  She  accepts  it,  with  a  wild  sob,  tipping 
Imp,  who  again  chuckles  a^  he  pockets  the  money.  The 
last  we  see  of  the  Vain  Woman,  she  is  trying  to  hold  the 
ear-trumpet  to  her  ear,  and  exits,  sobbing.  The  Former 
Rich  Citizen  still  sits  in  his  chair,  his  head  in  his 
hands.  Imp  picks  up  the  milk-can,  and,  tapping  the 
Tnan  not  too  gently  on  the  shoulder,  thrusts  the  milk-can 
at  him  and  makes  a  significant  gesture,  indicative  of — 
This  Way  Out.  The  man  rises  dejectedly,  picks  up 
his  crutch,  takes  the  milk-can,  and  hobbles  painfully 
toward  the  door.  Imp  doubles  himself  up  in  wild  Meph- 
istophelian  glee  as  the 

curtain  falls 


SAM  AVERAGE 

BY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 


Sam  Average  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Percy  Mackaye. 
This  play  first  appeared  in  Yankee  Fantasies,  Duffield  &  Company, 
New  York. 

Special  Notice 

No  public  or  private  performance  of  this  play — professional  or  amateur 
— and  no  public  reading  of  it  for  money  may  be  given  without  the  written 
permission  of  the  author  and  the  payment  of  royalty.  Persons  who 
desire  to  obtain  such  permission  should  communicate  direct  with  the 
author  at  his  address.  Harvard  Club,  27  West  44th  Street,  New  York 
City. 


PERCY  MACKAYE 

Percy  Mackaye,  who  was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1875,  is 
one  of  the  few  Americans  whose  interest  has  been  almost  wholly 
in  the  theatre.  As  a  lecturer,  writer,  and  champion  of  real  art 
in  drama,  he  lias  had  few  if  any  equals.  He  inherited  his  inter- 
est in  drama  from  his  father,  Steele  Mackaye,  author  of  Hazel 
Kirke.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard,  where  he  studied  under 
Professor  George  Pierce  Baker,  and  at  Leipzig.  He  has  trav- 
elled extensively  in  Europe  and  at  various  times  has  resided  in 
Rome,  Switzerland,  and  London.  In  1914  Dartmouth  conferred 
upon  him  the  honorary  Master  of  Arts  degree.  At  present  he 
holds  a  fellowship  in  dramatic  literature  in  Miami  University, 
Oxford,  Ohio. 

Mr.  Mackaye's  efforts  in  the  dramatic  field  have  been  varied. 
Masques,  pageants,  operas,  and  plays  are  to  his  credit.  The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims,  The  Scarecrow,  Jeanne  D^Arc,  Mater,  Anti- 
Matrimony,  Sanctuary,  Saint  Louis  Masque,  and  Caliban  are 
among  his  better-known  works. 

In  1912  appeared  his  Yankee  Fantasies,  of  which  Sam  Average 
and  Gettysburg  are  the  more  noteworthy. 

In  all  of  Mr.  Mackaye's  work  he  possesses  what  many  drama- 
tists lack — a  definite  ideal.  He  aims  at  an  artistic  and  literary 
effect.  His  Sam  Average  is  a  real  contribution  to  American  pa- 
triotic drama. 


CHARACTERS 

Andrew 
Joel 

Ellen 

Sam  Average 


SAM  AVERAGE* 

An  intrenchment  in  Canada,  near  Niagara  Falls,  in  the  year  1814. 

Night,  shortly  before  dawn. 
On  the  right,  the  dull  glow  of  a  smouldering  wood  fire  ruddies  the 

earthen  embankment,  the  low-stretched  outline  of  which  forms, 

with  darkness,  the  scenic  background. 
Near  the  centre,  left,  against  the  dark,  a  flag  with  stars  floats  from 

Us  standard. 
Beside  the  fire,  Andrew,  reclined,  gazes  at  a  small  frame  in  his 

hand  ;  near  him  is  a  knapsack,  with  contents  emptied  beside  it. 
On  the  embankment,  Joel,  with  a  gun,  paces  back  and  forth,  a 

blanket  thrown  about  his  shoulders. 

Joel.     [With  a  singing  call.]     Four  o'clock ! — ^All's  well ! 

[Jumping  down  from  the  embankment,  he  approaches  the 
fire. 

Andrew.     By  God,  Joel,  it's  bitter. 

Joel.     [Rubbing  his  hands  over  the  coals.]    A  mite  sharpish. 

Andrew.     [Looks  up  eagerly.]     What  ? 

Joel.     Cuts  sharp,  for  Thanksgivin'. 

Andrew.  [Sinks  back,  gloomily.]  Oh!  [A  pause.]  I  won- 
dered you  should  agree  with  me.  You  meant  the  weather.  I 
meant —  [A  pause  again, 

Joel.     Well,  Andy,  what'd  you  mean .? 

Andrew.     Life. 

Joel.     Shucks ! 

Andrew.     [To  himself.]     Living ! 

*  Copyright,  1912,  1921,  by  Percy  Mackaye.     All  rights  reserved. 

89 


90  PERCY    MACKAYE 

Joel.     [Sauntering  over  left,  listens.]     Hear  a  rooster  crow  ? 

Andrew.     No.     What  are  you  doing  ? 

Joel.  Tiltin'  the  flag  over  crooked  in  the  dirt.  That's  our 
signal. 

Andrew.  Nothing  could  be  more  apj^opriate,  unless  we 
buried  it — buried  it  in  the  dirt ! 

Joel.  She's  to  find  us  where  the  flag's  turned  down.  I  fixed 
that  with  the  sergeant  all  right.  The  rooster  crowin'  's  her 
watchword  for  us. 

Andrew.  An  eagle  screaming,  Joel:  that  would  have  been 
better.     [Rising.]    Ah !  [He  laughs  painfully. 

Joel.  Hush  up,  Andy!  The  nearest  men  ain't  two  rods 
away.     You'll  wake  'em.     Pitch  it  low. 

Andrew.     Don't  be  alarmed.     I'm  coward  enough. 

Joel.  'Course,  though,  there  ain't  much  danger.  I'm  senti- 
nel this  end,  and  the  sergeant  has  the  tip  at  t'other.  Besides, 
you  may  call  it  the  reg'lar  thing.  There's  been  two  thousand 
deserters  already  in  this  tuppenny-ha'penny  war,  and  none  on 
'em  the  worse  off.  When  a  man  don't  get  his  pay  for  nine  months 
— well,  he  ups  and  takes  his  vacation.  Why  not  ?  When  Nell 
joins  us,  we'll  hike  up  the  Niagara,  cross  over  to  Tonawanda,  and 
take  our  breakfast  in  Buffalo.  By  that  time  the  boys  here  will 
be  marchin'  away  tow^ard  Lundy's  Lane. 

Andrew.     [Walks  back  and  forth,  shivering.]     I'm  afraid. 

Joel.     'Fraid  ?     Bosh ! 

Andrew.     I'm  afraid  to  face 

Joel.    Face  what  ?    We  won't  get  caught. 

Andrew.     Your  sister — my  wife. 

Joel.  Nell !  \Miy,  ain't  she  comin'  here  just  a-purpose  to 
get  you.^  Ain't  there  reason  enough.  Lord  knows  .f^  Ain't  you 
made  up  your  mind  to  light  out  home  anyhow  ? 

Andrew.  Yes.  That's  just  what  she'll  never  forgive  me  for. 
In  her  heart  she'll  never  think  of  me  the  same.  For  she  knows 
as  well  as  I  what  pledge  I'll  be  breaking — what  sacred  pledge. 


SAM    AVERAGE  91 

Joel.     What  you  mean  ? 

Andrew.     No  matter,  no  matter;  this  is  gush. 

[He  returns  to  the  fire  and  begins  to  fumble  over  the  contents 
of  his  knapsack.     Joel  watches  him  idly. 
Joel.     One  of  her  curls  ? 

Andrew.     [Looking  at  a  lock  of  hair  in  the  firelight.]    No;  the 
baby's,    Httle   Andy's.     Some   day   they'll    tell    him    how    his 

father [He  winces,  and  puts  the  lock  away. 

Joel.     [Going  toward  the  embankment.]     Listen  ! 

Andrew.     [Ties  up  the  package,  muttering.]     Son  of  a  traitor  ! 

Joel.     [Tiptoeing  back.]     It's  crowed — that's  her. 

[Leaping  to  his  feet,  Andrew  stares  toward  the  embankment 
where  the  flag  is  dipped  ;  then  turns  his  back  to  it,  closing 
his  eyes  and  gripping  his  hands. 
[After  a  pause,  silently  the  figure  of  a  young  woman  emerges 
from  the  dark  and  stands  on  the  embankment.     She  is 
bareheaded  and  ill  clad. 
[Joel  touches  Andrew,  who  turns  and  looks  toward  her. 
Silently  she  steals  down  to  him  and  they  embrace. 
Andrew.    My  Nell ! 

Ellen.     Nearly  a  year 

Andrew.    Now,  at  last ! 

Ellen.     Hold  me  close,  Andy. 

Andrew.     You're  better  ? 

Ellen.    Let's  forget — just  for  now. 

Andrew.    Is  he  grown  much  ? 

Ellen.     Grown  ?     You  should  see  him  !     But  so  ill !     What 

could  I  do .?     You  see 

Andrew.    I  know,  I  know. 

Ellen.     The  money  was  all  gone.     They  turned  me  out  at 

the  old  place,  and  then 

Andrew.     I  know,  dear. 

Ellen.    I  got  sewing,  but  when  the  smallpox 


92  PERCY    MACKAYE 

Andrew.  I  have  all  your  letters,  Nell.  Come,  help  me  to 
pack. 

Ellen.     What !     You're  really  decided 

Joel.     [Approaching.]     Hello,  Sis ! 

Ellen.  [Absently.]  Ah,  Joel;  that  you. ^  [Eagerly y  following 
Andrew  to  the  knapsack.]     But,  my  dear 

Andrew.     Just  these  few  things,  and  we're  off. 

Ellen.  [Agitated.]  Wait,  wait!  You  don't  know  yet  why 
I've  come — instead  of  writing. 

Andrew.     I  can  guess. 

Ellen.  But  you  can't;  that's — what's  so  hard !  I  have  to 
tell  you  something,  and  then —  [Sloivly.]  I  must  know  from 
your  own  eyes,  from  yourself,  that  you  wish  to  do  this,  Andrew; 
that  you  think  it  is  right. 

Andrew.     [Gently.]     I  guessed  that. 

Ellen.  This  is  what  I  must  tell  you.  It's  not  just  the  sick- 
ness, it's  not  only  the  baby,  not  the  money  gone — and  all  that; 
it's — it's 

Andrew.     [Murmurs.]     My  God ! 

Ellen.  It's  what  all  that  brings — the  helplessness.  I've 
been  insulted.     Andy —     [Her  voice  breaks.]     I  want  a  protector. 

Andrew.  [Taking  her  in  his  arms,  where  she  sobs.]  There, 
dear ! 

Ellen.     [With  a  low  moan.]    You  know. 

Andrew.     I  know.     Come,  now;  we'll  go. 

Ellen.  [Her  face  lighting  up.]  Oh !  and  you  dare  I  It's 
right? 

Andrew.  [Moving  from  her,  with  a  hoarse  laugh.]  Dare? 
Dare  I  be  damned  by  God  and  all  his  angels?  Ha!  Come, 
we're  slow. 

Joel.     Time  enough. 

Ellen.  [Sinking  upon  Joel's  knapsack  05  a  seat,  leans  her 
head  on  her  hands,  and  looks  strangely  at  Andrew.]  I'd  better 
have  written,  I'm  afraid. 


SAM    AVERAGE  93 

Andrew.  [Controlling  his  emotion.]  Now,  don't  take  it  that 
way.     I've  considered  it  all. 

Ellen.  [With  deep  quiet.]  Blasphemously.'' 
Andrew.  Reasonably,  my  brave  wife.  When  I  enlisted,  I 
did  so  in  a  dream.  I  dreamed  I  was  called  to  love  and  serve  our 
country.  But  that  dream  is  shattered.  This  sordid  war,  this 
political  murder,  has  not  one  single  principle  of  humanity  to 
excuse  its  bloody  sacrilege.  It  doesn't  deserve  my  loyalty — our 
loyalty. 

Ellen.  Are  you  saying  this — for  my  sake?  What  of  "God 
and  his  angels".? 

Andrew.  [Not  looking  at  her.]  If  we  had  a  just  cause — a 
cause  of  liberty  like  that  in  Seventy-six;  if  to  serve  one's  country 
meant  to  serve  God  and  his  angels — then,  yes;  a  man  might  put 
away  wife  and  child.  He  might  say:  "I  will  not  be  a  husband, 
a  father;  I  will  be  a  patriot."  But  now — like  this — tangled  in  a 
web  of  spiders — caught  in  a  grab-net  of  politicians — and  you, 
you  and  our  baby-boy,  like  this — hell  let  in  on  our  home — no, 
Coimtry  be  cursed ! 

Ellen.     [Slowly.]     So,  then,  when  little  Andy  grows  up 

Andrew.     [Groaning.]     I  say  that  the  only  thing 

Ellen.     I  am  to  tell  him 

Andrew.  [Defiantly.]  Tell  him  his  father  deserted  his  coun- 
try, and  thanked  God  for  the  chance.  [Looking  about  him  pas- 
sionately.] Here  !  [He  tears  a  part  of  the  flag  from  its  standard^ 
and  reaches  it  toward  her.]     You're  cold;  put  this  round  you. 

[As  he  is  putting  the  strip  of  colored  silk  about  her  shoulders, 
there  rises,  faint  yet  close  by,  a  sound  of  fifes  and  fiutes, 
playing  the  merry  march-strains  of  "  Yankee  Doodle.'^ 
[At  the  same  time  there  enters  along  the  embankment,  dimly, 
enveloped  in  a  great  cloak,  a  tall  Figure,  which  pauses 
beside  the  standard  of  the  torn  flag,  silhouetted  against  the 
first  pale  streaks  of  the  dawn. 
Ellen.     [Gazing  at  Andrew.]     What's  the  matter  ? 


94  PERCY    MACKAYE 

Andrew.     [Listening.]     Who  are  they  ?     Where  is  it  ? 
Joel.     [Starts,  alertly.]     He  hears  something. 
Andrew.     Why  should  they  play  before  daybreak  ? 

Ellen.    Andy 

Joel.     [Whispers.]     Ssh  !     Look  out !     We're  spied  on ! 

[He  points  to  the  embankment.    Andrew  and  Ellen  draw 
back. 
The  Figxjre.     [Straightening  the  flag-standard,  and  leaning  on 
it.]    Desartin'  ? 

Andrew.  [Puts  Ellen  behind  him.]  Who's  there  .^  The 
watchword ! 

The  Figure.     God  save  the  smart  folks ! 
Joel.     [To  Andrew.]     He's  on  to  us.     Pickle  him  quiet,  or 
it*s  court  martial !    [Showing  a  long  knife.]    Shall  I  give  him  this  ? 
Andrew.     [Taking  it  from  him.]     No.     /  will. 
Ellen.     [Seizing  his  arm.]    Andrew ! 
Andrew.    Let  go. 

[The  Figure,  descending  into  the  intrenchment,  approaches 
with  face  muffled.    Joel  draws  Ellen  away.    Andrew 
moves  toward  The  Figure  slowly.    They  meet  and  pause, 
Andrew.     You're  a  spy ! 

[With  a  quick  flash,  Andrew  raises  the  knife  to  strike,  but 

pauses,  staring.     The  Figure,  throwing  up  one  arm  to 

ward  the  blow,  reveals — through  the  parted  cloak — a  glint 

of  stars  in  the  firelight."^ 

The  Figure.     Steady,  boys;  I'm  one  of  ye.     The  sergeant 

told  me  to  drop  round. 

Joel.     Oh,  the  sergeant !     That's  all  right,  then. 

Andrew.     [Dropping  the  knife.]     Who  are  you  ? 

The  Figure.     Who  be /.^     My  name,  ye  mean .'     My  name's 

*  The  head  and  face  of  the  Figure  are  partly  hidden  by  a  beak-shaped 
cowl.  Momentarily,  however,  when  his  head  is  turned  toward  the  fire, 
enough  of  the  face  is  discernible  to  reveal  his  narrow  iron-gray  beard, 
shaven  upper  lip,  aquiline  nose,  and  eyes  that  twinkle  in  the  dimness. 


SAM    AVERAGE  95 

Average — Sam  Average.  Univarsal  Sam,  some  o'  my  prophetic 
friends  calls  me. 

Andrew.     What  are  you  doing  here — now  ? 

The  Figure.     Oh,  tendin'  to  business. 

Joel.     Tendin'  to  other  folks'  business,  eh  ? 

The  Figure.  [With  a  toiwh  of  weariness.]  Ye-es;  reckon 
that  is  my  business.     Some  other  folks  is  me. 

Joel.     [Grimacing  to  Ellen.]    Cracked ! 

The  Figure.  [To  Andrew.]  You're  a  mite  back'ard  in 
wages,  ain't  ye  ? 

Andrew.     Nine  months.     What  of  that.? 

The  Figure.  That's  what  I  dropped  round  for.  Seems  like 
when  a  man's  endoored  and  fit,  like  you  have,  for  his  country, 
and  calc'lates  he'll  quit,  he  ought  to  be  takin'  a  little  suthin'  hom' 
for  Thanksgivin'.     So  I  fetched  round  your  pay. 

Andrew.     My  pay !    You  ? 

The  Figure.    Yes;  I'm  the  paymaster. 

Ellen.    [Coming  forward,  eagerly.]    Andy!     The  money,  is  it .'' 

The  Figure.  [Bows  with  a  grave,  old-fashioned  staieliness.] 
Your  sarvent,  ma'am ! 

Andrew.  [Sfealcinglow.]  Keep  back,  Nell.  [T^o  The  Figure.] 
You — you  were  saying 

The  Figure.  I  were  about  to  say  how  gold  bein'  scarce  down 
to  the  Treasury,  I  fetched  ye  some  s'curities  instead;  some  na- 
tional I.  O.  U.'s,  as  ye  might  say.  [He  takes  out  an  old  jpowder- 
horn,  and  rattles  it  quietly.]  That's  them.  [Pouring  from  the 
horn  into  his  palm  some  glistening,  golden  grains.]     Here  they  be. 

Ellen.     [Peering,  with  Joel.]     Gold,  Andy  ! 

Joel.  [With  a  snigger.]  Gold — nothin' !  That's  corn — just 
Injun  corn.     Ha ! 

The  Figure.  [Bowing  gravely.]  It's  the  quality,  ma'am, 
what  counts,  as  ye  might  say. 

Joel.     [Behind  his  hand.]     His  top-loft  leaks ! 

The  Figure.     These  here  karnels,  now,  were  give'  me  down 


96  PERCY    MACKAYE 

Plymouth  way,  in  Massachusetts,  the  fust  Thanksgivin'  seems 
like  I  can  remember.  'Twa'n't  long  after  the  famine  we  had 
thar.  Me  bein'  some  hungry,  the  red-folks  fetched  a  hull-lot  o' 
this  round,  with  the  compliments  of  their  capting — what  were  his 
name  now  ? — Massasoit.  This  here's  the  last  handful  on't  left. 
Thought  ye  might  like  some,  bein'  Thanksgivin'. 

Joel.     [In  a  low  voice,  to  Ellen.]     His  screws  are  droppin' 
out.     Come  and  pack.     We've  got  to  mark  time  and  skip. 

The  Figure.     [Without  looking  at  Joel.]     Eight  or  ten  min- 
utes still  to  spare,  boys.     The  sergeant  said — wait  till  ye  hear 
his  jew's-harp  playin'  of  that  new  war  tune.  The  Star-Spangled 
Banner.     Then  ye' 11  know  the  coast's  clear. 
Joel.     Gad,  that's  right.     I  remember  now. 

\He  draws  Ellen  away  to  the  knapsack,  which  they  begin  to 
pack,     Andrew  has  never  removed  his  eyes  from  the  tall 
form  in  the  cloak. 
[Now,  as  The  Figure  pours  back  the  yellow  grains  from  his 
pahn  into  the  powder-horn,  he  speaks,  hesitatingly, 
Andrew.     I  thmk — I'd  like  some. 
The  Figure.     Some  o'  what  ? 
Andrew.     Those — my  pay. 

The  Figure.     [Cheerfully.]     So.     Would  ye?     [Handing  him 
the  horn.]     Reckon  that's  enough  ? 

Andrew.     [Not  taking  it.]     That's  what  I  want  to  make  sure 
of — ^first. 

The  Figure.     Oh !     So  ye're  hesitatin' ! 
Andrew.     Yes;  but  I  want  you  to  help  me  decide.     Pardon 
me,  sir.     You're  a  stranger,  yet  somehow  I  feel  I  may  ask  your 
help.     You've  come  just  in  time. 

The  Figure.     Queer  I  should  a-dropped  round  jest  now, 
wa'n't  it  ?     S'posin'  we  take  a  turn. 

[Together  they  walk  toivard  the  embankment.     By  the  knap- 
sack Ellen  ^nc?5  the  little  frame. 
Ellen.     [To  herself.]     My  picture ! 


SAM    AVERAGE  97 

[She  looks  toioard  Andrew  affectionately.     Joel,  lifting  the 
knapsack,  beckons  to  her. 

Joel.     There's  more  stuff  over  here. 

[He  goes  off,  right ;  Ellen  follows  him. 

Andrew.  [To  The  Figure.]  I  should  like  the  judgment  of 
your  experience,  sir.  I  can't  quite  see  your  face,  yet  you  appear 
to  be  one  who  has  had  a  great  deal  of  experience. 

The  Figure.     Why,  consid'able  some. 

Andrew.  Did  you — happen  to  fight  in  the  late  war  for  inde- 
pendence .f* 

The  Figure.  Happen  to.^^  [Laughing  quietly.]  N-no,  not 
fight;  ye  see — ^I  was  paymaster. 

Andrew.     But  you  went  through  the  war  ? 

The  Figure.  Ye-es,  oh,  yes;  I  went  through  it.  I  took  out 
my  fust  reg'lar  papers  down  to  Philadelphie,  in  '76,  seems  like 
'twas  the  fourth  day  o'  July.     But  I  was  paymaster  afore  that. 

Andrew.  Tell  me:  I've  heard  it  said  there  were  deserters 
even  in  those  days,  even  from  the  roll-call  of  Washington.  Is  it 
true  ? 

The  Figure.  True,  boy  ?  Have  ye  ever  watched  a  prairie- 
fire  rollin'  toward  ye,  billowin'  with  flame  and  smoke,  and  seed 
all  the  midget  cowerin'  prairie-dogs  scoot  in'  for  their  holes  .?* 
Wall,  that's  the  way  I  watched  Howe's  army  sweepin'  crosst  the 
Jarsey  marshes,  and  seed  the  desartin'  little  patriots,  with  their 
chins  over  their  shoulders,  skedaddlin'  home'ards. 

Andrew.     What — the  Americans  ! 

The  Figure.  All  but  a  handful  on  'em — them  as  weren't 
canines,  ye  might  say,  but  men.  They  set  a  back-fire  goin'  at 
Valley  Forge.  Most  on  'em  burnt  their  toes  and  fingers  off, 
lightin'  on't  thar  in  the  white  frost,  but  they  stuck  it  through  and 
saved — wall,  the  prairie-dogs. 

Andrew.  But  they — those  others.  What  reason  did  they 
give  to  God  and  their  own  souls  for  deserting .? 

The  Figure.     To  who .? 


98  PERCY    MACKAYE 

Andrew.  To  their  consciences.  What  was  their  reason  ?  It 
must  have  been  a  noble  one  in  '76.  Their  reason  then  ;  don't  you 
see,  I  must  have  it.  I  must  know  what  reason  real  heroes  gave 
for  their  acts.     You  were  there.     You  can  tell  me. 

The  Figure.  i^aZ  heroes,  eh.?  Look  around  ye,  then.  To- 
day's the  heroic  age,  and  the  true  brand  o'  hero  is  al'ays  in  the 
market.     Look  around  ye ! 

Andrew.  What,  here — in  this  war  of  jobsters,  this  petty 
campaign  of  monstrous  boodle  2 

The  Figure.    Thar  we  be ! 

Andrew.  Why,  here  are  only  a  lot  of  cowardly  half-men,  like 
me — Clovers  of  their  own  folks — their  wives  and  babies  at  home. 
They'll  make  sacrifices  for  them.  But  real  men  like  our  fathers 
in  '76:  they  looked  in  the  beautiful  face  of  Liberty,  and  sacri- 
ficed to  her  I 

The  Figure.  Our  fathers,  my  boy,  was  jest  as  fond  o'  poetry 
as  you  be.  They  talked  about  the  beautiful  face  o'  Liberty 
same's  you;  but  when  the  hom'made  eyes  and  cheeks  of  their 
sweethearts  and  young  uns  took  to  cry  in',  they  desarted  their 
beautiful  goddess  and  skun  out  hom'. 

Andrew.     But  there  were  some 

The  Figure.  Thar  was  some  as  didn't — yes;  and  thar's  some 
as  don't  to-day.  Those  be  the  folks  on  my  pay-roll.  Why,  look 
a-here:  I  calc'late  I  wouldn't  fetch  much  on  the  beauty  counter. 
My  talk  ain't  rhyme  stuff,  nor  the  Muse  o'  Grammar  wa'n't  my 
schoolma'am.  Th'  ain't  painter  nor  clay-sculptor  would  pictur' 
me  jest  like  I  stand.  For  the  axe  has  hewed  me,  and  the  plough 
has  furrered;  and  the  arnin'  of  gold  by  my  own  elbow-grease  has 
give'  me  the  shrewd  eye  at  a  bargain.  I  manure  my  crops  this 
side  o'  Jordan,  and  as  for  t'other  shore,  I'd  ruther  swap  jokes 
with  the  Lord  than  listen  to  his  sarmons.  And  yet  for  the  likes 
o'  me,  jest  for  to  arn  my  wages — ha,  the  many,  many  boys  and 
gals  that's  gone  to  their  grave-beds,  and  when  I  a-closed  their 
eyes,  the  love-light  was  shinin'  thar. 


SAM    AVERAGE  99 

Andrew.    [Who  has  listened  with  awe.]    What  are  you  ?    What 
are  you  ? 

The  Figure.     Me  ?     I'm  the  paymaster. 
Andrew.     I  want  to  serve  you — like  those  others. 
The  Figure.     Slow,  slow,  boy  !     Nobody  sarves  me. 
Andrew.     But  they  died  for  you — the  others. 
The  Figure.     No,  'twa'n't  for  me;  'twas  for  him  as  pays 
the  wages;  the  one  as  works  through  me — the  one  higher  up. 
I'm  only  the  paymaster;  kind  of  a  needful  makeshift — his  obedi- 
ent sarvant. 

Andrew.     [With  increasing  curiosity,  seeks  to  peer  in  The 
Figure's  face.]     But  the  one  up  higher — who  is  he  ? 

The  Figure.     [Turning  his  head  away.]    Would  ye  sarve 
him,  think,  if  ye  heerd  his  voice  ? 

Andrew.     [Ardently,  drawing  closer.]    And  saw  his  face ! 

[Drawing  his  cowl  lower  and  taking  Andrew's  arm.  The 
Figure  leads  him  up  on  the  embankment,  where  they  stand 
together. 
The  Figure.     Hark  a-yonder ! 
Andrew.     [Listening.]    Is  it  thunder  ? 
The  Figure.     Have  ye  forgot  ? 
Andrew.     The  voice !     I  remember  now — Niagara ! 

[With  awe,  Andrew  looks  toward  The  Figure,  who  stands 

shrouded  and  still,  facing  the  dawn.     From  far  off  comes 

a  sound  as  of  falling  waters,  and  with  that — a  deep  mur- 

mv;rous  voice,  which  seems  to  issue  from  The  Figure's 

cowl. 

The  Voice.     I  am  the  Voice  that  was  heard  of  your  fathers, 

and  your  fathers'  fathers.     Mightier — ^mightier,  I  shall  be  heard 

of  your  sons.     I  am  the  Million  in  whom  the  one  is  lost,  and  I 

am  the  One  in  whom  the  millions  are  saved.     Their  ears  shall  be 

shut  to  my  thunders,  their  eyes  to  my  blinding  stars.     In  shallow 

streams  they  shall  tap  my  life-blood  for  gold.     With  dregs  of 

coal  and  of  copper  they  shall  pollute  me.     In  the  mystery  of  my 


100  PERCY    MACKAYE 

mountains  tliey  shall  assail  me;  in  the  majesty  of  my  forests, 
strike  me  down;  with  engine  and  derrick  and  millstone,  bind 
me  their  slave.  Some  for  a  lust,  some  for  a  love,  shall  desert 
me.  One  and  one,  for  his  own,  shall  fall  away.  Yet  one  and 
one  and  one  shall  return  to  me  for  life;  the  deserter  and  the  de- 
stroyer shall  re-create  me.  Primeval,  their  life-blood  is  mine. 
My  pouring  waters  are  passion,  my  lightnings  are  laughter  of 
man.  I  am  the  One  in  whom  the  millions  are  saved,  and  I  am 
the  Million  in  whom  the  one  is  lost. 

Andrew.     [Yearningly ^  to  Tue  Figxtri:.]     Your  face! 

[The  Figure  turns  majestically  away.    Andrew  clings  to 
him, 
Andrew.     Your  face ! 

[In  the  shadow  of  the  flag  The  Figure  unmuffles  for  an  in- 
stant. 
[Peering^  dazzled,  Andrew  staggers  hack,  with  a  low  cry, 

and,  covering  his  eyes,  falls  upon  the  embankment. 
[From  away,  left,  the  thrumming  of  a  jew's-harp  is  heard, 

playing  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 
[From  the  right  enter  Joel  and  Ellen. 
[Descending  from  the  embankment.  The  Figure  stands 
apart. 
Joel.     Well,  Colonel  Average,  time's  up. 
Ellen.     [Seeing  Andrew's  prostrate  form,  hastens  to  him.] 
Andy  !     What's  happened  ? 

Andrew.     [Rising  slowly.]     Come  here.     I'll  whisper  it. 

[He  leads  her  beside  the  embankment,  beyond  which  the  dawn 
is  beginning  to  redden. 
Joel.     Yonder's  the  sergeant's  jew's-harp.     That's  our  signal, 
Nell.     So  long,  colonel. 

The  Figure.     [Nodding.]     So  long,  sonny. 
Andrew.     [Holding  Ellen's  hands,  passionately.]     You  un- 
derstand ?     You  do  ? 

Ellen.     [Looking  in  his  eyes.]     I  understand,  dear. 


SAM    AVERAGE  101 

[They  kiss  each  other. 
Joel.     [Calls  low.]     Come,  you  married  turtles.     The  road's 
clear.     Follow  me  now.     Sneak. 

[Carrying  his  knapsack,  Joel  climbs  over  the  embankment 

and  disappears. 
[The  thrumming  of  the  jew^s-harp  continties. 
[Ellen,  taking  the  strip  of  silk  flag  from  her  shoulders,  ties 
it  to  the  standard. 
Andrew.     [Faintly.]     God  bless  you  ! 
Ellen.     [As  they  part  hands.]     Good-by ! 

[The  Figure  has  remounted  the  embankment,  where — in  the 
distincter  glow  of  the  red  dawn — the  gray  folds  of  his  cloak, 
hanging  from  his  shoulders,  resemble  the  half -closed  wings 
of  an  eagle,  the  beaked  cowl  falling,  as  a  kind  of  visor, 
before  his  face,  concealing  it. 
The  Figure.     Come,  little  gal. 

[Ellen  goes  to  him,  and  hides  her  face  in  the  great  cloak. 
As  she  does  so,  he  draws  from  it  a  paper,  writes  on  it,  and 
hands  it  to  Andrew,  with  the  powder-horn. 
The  Figure.     By  the  by,  Andy,  here's  that  s'curity.     Them 
here's  my  initials;  they're  all  what's  needful.     Jest  file  this  in  the 
right  pigeonhole,  and  you'll  draw  your  pay.     Keep  your  upper 
lip,  boy.     I'll  meet  ye  later,  mebbe,  at  Lundy's  Lane. 
Andrew.     [Wistfully.]     You'll  take  her  home.'^ 
The  Figure.     Yes;   reckon  she'll  housekeep  for  your  uncle 
till  you  get  back;  won't  ye,  Nellie.'^     Come,  don't  cry,  little  gal. 
We'll  soon  git  'quainted.     'Tain't  the  fust  time  sweethearts  has 
called  me  Uncle. 

[Flinging  back  his  great  cloak,  he  throws  one  wing  of  ii,  with 
his  arm,  about  her  shoulders,  thv^  with  half  its  reverse  side 
draping  her  with  shining  stripes  and  stars.  By  the  same 
action  his  own  figure  is  made  partly  visible — the  legs 
clad  in  the  tight,  instep-strapped  troupers  {blue  and  white) 
of  the  Napoleonic  era.    Holding  the  girl  gently  to  him — 


102  PERCY    MACKAYE 

while  her  face  turns  hack  toward  Andrew — he  leads  her, 
silhouetted  against  the  sunrise,  along  the  embankment,  and 
disappears. 

[Meantime,  the  thrumming  twang  of  the  Jew's -harp  grows 
sweeter,  mellower,  modulated  with  harmonies  that,  filling 
now  the  air  with  elusive  strains  of  the  American  war- 
hymn,  mingle  with  the  faint  dawn-tivitterings  of  birds. 

[Andrew  stares  silently  after  the  departed  forms;  then, 
slowly  coming  down  into  the  intrenchment,  lifts  from  the 
ground  his  gun  and  ramrod,  leans  on  the  gun,  and — read- 
ing the  paper  in  his  hand  by  the  growing  light — mutters 

^  "''"«*•■  U.S.A. 

[Smiling  sternly,  he  crumples  the  paper  in  his  fist,  makes  a 
wad  of  it,  and  rams  it  into  his  gun-ba/rrel. 


HYACINTH  HALVEY 

BY 

LADY  AUGUSTA  GREGORY 


Hyacinth  Ealvey  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  New  York  City,  publishers  of  Lady  Gregory's  work  in  America. 
All  rights  reserved.     For  permission  to  perform,  address  the  publisher. 


LADY  AUGUSTA  GREGORY 

Lady  Augusta  Gregory,  one  of  the  foremost  figures  in  the 
Irish  dramatic  movement,  was  born  at  Roxborough,  County 
Galway,  Ireland,  in  1859.  "She  was  then  a  young  woman," 
says  one  who  has  described  her  in  her  early  married  life,  "very 
earnest,  who  divided  her  hair  in  the  middle  and  wore  it  smooth 
on  either  side  of  a  broad  and  handsome  brow.  Her  eyes  were 
always  full  of  questions.  ...  In  her  drawing-room  were  to  be 
met  men  of  assured  reputation  in  literature  and  politics,  and 
there  was  always  the  best  reading  of  the  times  upon  her  tables." 
Lady  Gregory  has  devoted  her  entire  life  to  the  cause  of  Irish 
literature.  In  1911  she  visited  the  United  States  and  at  a  din- 
ner given  to  her  by  The  Outlook  in  New  York  City  she  said: 

"I  will  not  cease  from  mental  strife 
Or  let  the  sword  fall  from  my  hand 
Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 
In — Ireland's — fair  and  lovely  land." 

Lady  Gregory,  with  William  Butler  Yeats  and  John  Milling- 
ton  Synge,  has  been  the  very  life  of  the  Irish  drama.  The  liter- 
ary association  of  these  three  has  been  highly  fruitful.  She 
helped  to  found  the  Irish  National  Theatre  Society,  and  for  a 
number  of  years  has  been  the  managing  force  of  the  celebrated 
Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin. 

Lady  Gregory's  chief  interest  has  been  in  peasant  comedies 
and  folk-plays.  Her  Spreading  the  News,  Hyacinth  Halvey,  The 
Rising  of  the  Moon,  The  Workhouse  Ward,  and  The  Travelling 
Man  are  w^ell-known  contributions  to  contemporary  drama. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  most  of  the  plays  of  the  Irish  dra- 
matic movement  are  one-act  plays.  Much  of  Irish  life  lends  it- 
self admirably  to  one-act  treatment.  Hyacinth  Halvey  is  one  of 
Lady  Gregory's  best  productions.  This  play  contains  a  univer- 
sal idea:  reputation  is  in  great  measure  a  matter  of  "a  password 
or  an  emotion."  Hyacinth,  having  a  good  reputation  thrust 
upon  him,  may  do  as  he  likes — ^his  good  name  clings  to  him  not- 
withstanding. 


PERSONS 

Hyacinth  Halvey 

James  Quirke,  a  butcher 

Fardy  Farrell,  a  telegraph  boy 

Sergeant  Garden 

Mrs.  Delane,  postmistress  at  Cloon 

Miss  Joyce,  the  priest's  housekeeper 


HYACINTH  HALVEY 

SCENE:  Outside  the  post-ofice  at  the  little  town  of  Cloon.  Mrs. 
Delane  at  post-office  door.  Mr.  Quirke  sitting  on  a  chair 
at  butcher's  door.  A  dead  sheep  hanging  beside  it,  and  a  thrush 
in  a  cage  above.  Fardy  Farrell  playing  on  a  mouth-organ. 
Train-whistle  heard. 

Mrs.  Delane.     There  is  the  four-o'clock  train,  Mr.  Quirke. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Is  it  now,  Mrs.  Delane,  and  I  not  long  after 
rising  ?  It  makes  a  man  drowsy  to  be  doing  the  haK  of  his  work 
in  the  night-time.  Going  about  the  country,  looking  for  little 
stags  of  sheep,  striving  to  knock  a  few  shillings  together.  That 
contract  for  the  soldiers  gives  me  a  great  deal  to  attend  to. 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  suppose  so.  It's  hard  enough  on  myself 
to  be  down  ready  for  the  mail-car  in  the  morning,  sorting  letters 
in  the  half-dark.  It's  often  I  haven't  time  to  look  who  are  the 
letters  from — or  the  cards. 

Mr.  Quirke.  It  would  be  a  pity  you  not  to  know  any  little 
news  might  be  knocking  about.  If  you  did  not  have  information 
of  what  is  going  on,  who  should  have  it  ?  Was  it  you,  ma'am, 
was  telling  me  that  the  new  sub-sanitary  inspector  would  be 
arriving  to-day  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  To-day  it  is  he  is  coming,  and  it's  likely  he 
was  in  that  train.  There  was  a  card  about  him  to  Sergeant  Car- 
den  this  morning. 

Mr.  Quirke.  A  young  chap  from  Carrow  they  were  saying 
he  was. 

Mrs.  Delane.     So  he  is,  one  Hyacinth  Halvey;  and  indeed  if 

107 


108  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

all  that  is  said  of  him  is  true,  or  if  a  quarter  of  it  is  true,  he  will 
be  a  credit  to  this  town. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Is  that  so  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  Testimonials  he  has  by  the  score.  To  Father 
Gregan  they  were  sent.  Registered  they  were  coming  and  going. 
Would  you  believe  me  telling  you  that  they  weighed  up  to  three 
pounds  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     There  must  be  great  bulk  in  them  indeed. 

Mrs.  Delane.  It  is  no  wonder  he  to  get  the  job.  He  must 
have  a  great  character,  so  many  persons  to  write  for  him  as  what 
there  did. 

Fardy.  It  would  be  a  great  thing  to  have  a  character  like 
that. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Indeed,  I  am  thinking  it  will  be  long  before 
you  will  get  the  like  of  it,  Fardy  Farrell. 

Fardy.  If  I  had  the  like  of  that  of  a  character  it  is  not  here 
carrying  messages  I  would  be.  It's  in  Noonan's  Hotel  I  would 
be,  driving  cars. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Here  is  the  priest's  housekeeper  coming. 

Mrs.  Delane.  So  she  is;  and  there  is  the  sergeant  a  little 
while  after  her. 

[Enter  Miss  Joyce. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Good  evening  to  you,  Miss  Joyce.  What  way 
is  his  reverence  to-day  ?    Did  he  get  any  ease  from  the  cough  ? 

Miss  Joyce.  He  did  not,  indeed,  Mrs.  Delane.  He  has  it 
sticking  to  him  yet.  Smothering  he  is  in  the  night-time.  The 
most  thing  he  comes  short  in  is  the  voice. 

Mrs.  Dela.ne.  I  am  sorry,  now,  to  hear  that.  He  should 
mind  himself  well. 

Miss  Joyce.     It's  easy  to  say  let  him  mind  himself.     WTiat 
do  you  say  to  him  going  to  the  meeting  to-night  ? 
[Sergeant  comes  in. 

Miss  Joyce.  It's  for  his  reverence's  "Freeman"  I  am  come, 
Mrs.  Delane. 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  109 

Mrs.  Delane.  Here  it  is  ready.  I  was  just  throwing  an 
eye  on  it  to  see  was  there  anj^  news.     Good  evening.  Sergeant. 

Sergeant.  [Holding  up  a  placard.]  I  brought  this  notice, 
Mrs.  Delane,  the  announcement  of  the  meeting  to  be  held  to- 
night in  the  court-house.  You  might  put  it  up  here  convenient 
to  the  window.     I  hope  you  are  coming  to  it  yourself  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  will  come,  and  welcome.  I  would  do  more 
than  that  for  you.  Sergeant. 

Sergeant.    And  you,  Mr.  Quirke. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I'll  come,  to  be  sure.  I  forget  what's  this  the 
meeting  is  about. 

Sergeant.  The  Department  of  Agriculture  is  sending  round 
a  lecturer  in  furtherance  of  the  moral  development  of  the  rural 
classes.  [Reads.]  "A  lecture  will  be  given  this  evening  in  Cloon 
Court-House,  illustrated  by  magic-lantern  slides — "  Those  will 
not  be  in  it;  I  am  informed  they  were  all  broken  in  the  first  jour- 
ney, the  railway  company  taking  them  to  be  eggs.  The  subject 
of  the  lecture  is  "The  Building  of  Character." 

Mrs.  Delane.  Very  nice,  indeed.  I  knew  a  girl  lost  her 
character,  and  she  washed  her  feet  in  a  blessed  well  after,  and  it 
dried  up  on  the  minute. 

Sergeant.  The  arrangements  have  all  been  left  to  me,  the 
archdeacon  being  away.  He  knows  I  have  a  good  intellect  for 
things  of  the  sort.  But  the  loss  of  those  slides  puts  a  man  out. 
The  thing  people  will  not  see  it  is  not  likely  it  is  the  thing  they 
will  believe.  I  saw  what  they  call  tableaux — standing  pictures, 
you  know — one  time  in  Dundrum 

Mrs.  Delane.  Miss  Joyce  was  saying  Father  Gregan  is  sup- 
porting you. 

Sergeant.  I  am  accepting  his  assistance.  No  bigotry  about 
me  when  there  is  a  question  of  the  welfare  of  any  fellow  creatures. 
Orange  and  green  will  stand  together  to-night.  I,  myself,  and 
the  station-master  on  the  one  side,  your  parish  priest  in  the 
chair. 


110  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Miss  Joyce.  If  his  reverence  would  mind  me  he  would  not 
quit  the  house  to-night.  He  is  no  more  fit  to  go  speak  at  a 
meeting  than  [pointing  to  the  one  hanging  outside  Quirke's  door] 
that  sheep. 

Sergeant.  I  am  willing  to  take  the  responsibility.  He  will 
have  no  speaking  to  do  at  all,  unless  it  might  be  to  bid  them  give 
the  lecturer  a  hearing.  The  loss  of  those  slides  now  is  a  great 
annoyance  to  me — and  no  time  for  anything.  The  lecturer  will 
be  coming  by  the  next  train. 

Miss  Joyce.     Who  is  this  coming  up  the  street,  Mrs.  Delane  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  wouldn't  doubt  it  to  be  the  new  sub-sani- 
tary inspector.  Was  I  telling  you  of  the  weight  of  the  testi- 
monials he  got.  Miss  Joyce  ? 

Miss  Joyce.  Sure,  I  heard  the  curate  reading  them  to  his 
reverence.     He  must  be  a  wonder  for  principles. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Indeed,  it  is  what  I  was  saying  to  myself,  he 
must  be  a  very  saintly  young  man. 

[Enter  Hyacinth  Halvey.  He  carries  a  small  bag  and 
a  large  brown-paper  parcel.  He  stops  and  nods  bash- 
fully. 

Hyacinth.  Good  evening  to  you.  I  was  bid  to  come  to  the 
post-office 

Sergeant.  I  suppose  you  are  Hyacinth  Halvey.'^  I  had  a 
letter  about  you  from  the  resident  magistrate. 

Hyacinth.  I  heard  he  was  writing.  It  was  my  mother  got  a 
friend  he  deals  with  to  ask  him. 

Sergeant.     He  gives  you  a  very  high  character. 

Hyacinth.  It  is  very  kind  of  him,  indeed,  and  he  not  know- 
ing me  at  all.  But,  indeed,  all  the  neighbors  were  very  friendly. 
Anything  any  one  could  do  to  help  me  they  did  it. 

Mrs.  Delane.  I'll  engage  it  is  the  testimonials  you  have  in 
your  parcel  ?  I  know  the  wrapping-paper,  but  they  grew  in  bulk 
since  I  handled  them. 

Hyacinth.     Indeed,  I  was  getting  them  to  the  last.     There 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  111 

was  not  one  refused  me.     It  is  what  my  mother  was  saying,  a 
good  character  is  no  burden. 

Fardy.     I  would  believe  that,  indeed. 

Sergeant.     Let  us  have  a  look  at  the  testimonials. 

[Hyacinth  Halvey  opens  parcel,  and  a  large  number  of 
envelopes  fall  out. 

Sergeant.  [Opening  and  reading  one  by  one.]  "He  possesses 
the  fire  of  the  Gael,  the  strength  of  the  Norman,  the  vigor  of  the 
Dane,  the  stolidity  of  the  Saxon " 

Hyacinth.  It  was  the  chairman  of  the  Poor  Law  Guardians 
wrote  that. 

Sergeant.     "A  magnificent  example  to  old  and  young " 

Hyacinth.  That  was  the  secretary  of  the  De  Wet  Hurling 
Club 


Sergeant.  "A  shining  example  of  the  value  conferred  by  an 
eminently  careful  and  high-class  education " 

Hyacinth.     That  was  the  national  schoolmaster. 

Sergeant.  "Devoted  to  the  highest  ideals  of  his  motherland 
to  such  an  extent  as  is  compatible  with  a  hitherto  non-parliamen- 
tary career " 

Hyacinth.     That  was  the  member  for  Carrow. 

Sergeant.     "A    splendid    exponent   of    the    purity    of    the 


Hyacinth.     The  editor  of  the  "  Carrow  Champion." 

Sergeant.  "Admirably  adapted  for  the  efficient  discharge  of 
all  possible  duties  that  may  in  future  be  laid  upon  him " 

Hyacinth.     The  new  station-master. 

Sergeant.  "A  champion  of  every  cause  that  can  legitimately 
benefit  his  fellow  creatures — "  Why,  look  here,  my  man,  you 
are  the  very  one  to  come  to  our  assistance  to-night. 

Hyacinth.  I  would  be  glad  to  do  that.  What  way  can  I 
doit? 

Sergeant.  You  are  a  newcomer — your  example  would  carry 
weight — you  must  stand  up  as  a  living  proof  of  the  beneficial 


112  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

eflPect  of  a  high  character,  moral  fibre,  temperance — there  is 
something  about  it  here  I  am  sure —  (Looks.)  I  am  sure  I  saw 
** unparalleled  temperance"  in  some  place 

Hyacinth.  It  was  my  mother's  cousin  wrote  that — I  am  no 
drinker,  but  I  haven't  the  pledge  taken 

Sergeant.     You  might  take  it  for  the  purpose. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Eagerly.]  Here  is  an  antitreating  button.  I 
was  made  a  present  of  it  by  one  of  my  customers — I'll  give  it  to 
you  [sticks  it  in  Hyacinth's  coat]  and  welcome. 

Sergeant.  That  is  it.  You  can  wear  the  button  on  the 
platform — or  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon — hundreds  will  follow  your  ex- 
ample— I  know  the  boys  from  the  Workhouse  will 

Hyacinth.     I  am  in  no  way  wishful  to  be  an  example 

Sergeant.  I  will  read  extracts  from  the  testimonials. 
"There  he  is,"  I  will  say,  "an  example  of  one  in  early  life  who 
by  his  own  unaided  efforts  and  his  high  character  has  obtained  a 
profitable  situation."  [Slaps  his  side.]  I  know  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  engage  a  few  corner-boys  from  Noonan's  bar,  just  as  they  are, 
greasy  and  sodden,  to  stand  in  a  group — there  will  be  the  con- 
trast— the  sight  will  deter  others  from  a  similar  fate — that's  the 
way  to  do  a  tableau — I  knew  I  could  turn  out  a  success. 

Hyacinth.     I  wouldn't  like  to  be  a  contrast 

Sergeant.  [Puts  testimonials  in  his  'pocket.]  I  will  go  now 
and  ergagi  those  lads — sixpence  each,  and  well  worth  it — noth- 
ing like  an  example  for  the  rural  classes. 

[Goes  off.  Hyacinth  feebly  trying  to  detain  him. 

Mrs.  Delane.  A  very  nice  man,  indeed.  A  little  high  up  in 
himself,  maybe.  I'm  not  one  that  blames  the  police.  Sure  they 
have  their  own  bread  to  earn  like  every  other  one.  And  indeed  it 
is  often  they  will  let  a  thing  pass. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Gloomily.]  Sometimes  they  will,  and  more 
times  they  will  not. 

Miss  Joyce.  And  where  will  you  be  finding  a  lodging,  Mr. 
Halvey  ^ 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  113 

Hyacinth.  I  was  going  to  ask  that  myself,  ma*am.  I  don't 
know  the  town. 

Miss  Joyce.  I  know  of  a  good  lodging,  but  it  is  only  a  very 
good  man  would  be  taken  into  it. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Sure  there  could  be  no  objection  there  to 
Mr.  Halvey.  There  is  no  appearance  on  him  but  what  is  good, 
and  the  sergeant  after  taking  him  up  the  way  he  is  doing. 

Miss  Joyce.  You  will  be  near  to  the  sergeant  in  the  lodging 
I  speak  of.     The  house  is  convenient  to  the  barracks. 

Hyacinth.     [Doubtfully.]     To  the  barracks  ? 

Miss  Joyce.  Alongside  of  it,  and  the  barrack-yard  behind. 
And  that's  not  all.     It  is  opposite  to  the  priest's  house. 

Hyacinth.     Opposite,  is  it  ? 

Miss  Joyce.  A  very  respectable  place,  indeed,  and  a  very 
clean  room  you  will  get.  I  know  it  well.  The  curate  can  see 
into  it  from  his  window. 

Hyacinth.     Can  he  now  ? 

Fardy.  There  was  a  good  many,  I  am  thinking,  went  into 
that  lodging  and  left  it  after. 

Miss  Joyce.  [Sharply.]  It  is  a  lodging  you  will  never  be  let 
into  or  let  stop  in,  Fardy.  If  they  did  go  they  were  a  good  rid- 
dance. 

Fardy.     John  Hart,  the  plumber,  left  it 

Miss  Joyce.  If  he  did  it  was  because  he  dared  not  pass  the 
police  coming  in,  as  he  used,  with  a  rabbit  he  was  after  snaring 
in  his  hand. 

Fardy.     The  schoolmaster  himself  left  it. 

Miss  Joyce.  He  needn't  have  left  it  if  he  hadn't  taken  to 
card-playing.  What  way  could  you  say  your  prayers,  and  shad- 
ows shuffling  and  dealing  before  you  on  the  blind  ? 

Hyacinth.  I  think  maybe  I'd  best  look  around  a  bit  before 
I'll  settle  in  a  lodging 

Miss  Joyce.  Not  at  all.  Fow  won't  be  wanting  to  pull  down 
the  blind. 


114  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mrs.  Delane.     It  is  not  likely  you  will  be  snaring  rabbits. 

Miss  Joyce.  Or  bringing  in  a  bottle  and  taking  an  odd  glass 
the  way  James  Kelly  did. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Or  writing  threatening  notices,  and  the  po- 
lice taking  a  view  of  you  from  the  rear. 

Miss  Joyce.  Or  going  to  roadside  dances,  or  running  after 
good-for-nothing  young  girls 

Hyacinth.  I  give  you  my  word  I'm  not  so  harmless  as  you 
think. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Would  you  be  putting  a  lie  on  these,  Mr. 
Halvey.''  [Touching  testimonials.]  I  know  well  the  way  you 
will  be  spending  the  evenings,  writing  letters  to  your  relations 

Miss  Joyce.     Learning  O'Growney's  exercises 

Mrs.  Delane.  Sticking  post-cards  in  an  album  for  the  con- 
vent bazaar. 

Miss  Joyce.     Reading  the  "Catholic  Young  Man" 

Mrs.  Dei^^ne.     Playing  the  melodies  on  a  melodeon 


Miss  Joyce.  Looking  at  the  pictures  in  the  "Lives  of  the 
Saints."     I'll  hurry  on  and  engage  the  room  for  you. 

Hyacinth.     Wait.     Wait  a  minute 

Miss  Joyce.  No  trouble  at  all.  I  told  you  it  was  just  op- 
posite. [Goes. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  suppose  I  must  go  up-stairs  and  ready  my- 
self for  the  meeting.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  contract  I  have  for  the 
soldiers'  barracks  and  the  sergeant's  good  word,  I  wouldn't  go 
anear  it.  [Goes  into  shop. 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  should  be  making  myself  ready,  too.  I 
must  be  in  good  time  to  see  you  being  made  an  example  of,  IMr. 
Halvey.  It  is  I,  myself,  was  the  jfirst  to  say  it;  you  will  be  a 
credit  to  the  town.  [Goes. 

Hyacinth.  [In  a  tone  of  agony.]  I  wish  I  had  never  seen 
Cloon. 

Fardy.     What  is  on  you  ? 

Hyacinth.     I  wish  I  had  never  left  Carrow.     I  wish  I  had 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  115 

been  drowned  the  first  day  I  thought  of  it,  and  I'd  be  better 
off. 

Fardy.     What  is  it  ails  you  ? 

Hyacinth.  I  wouldn't  for  the  best  pound  ever  I  had  be  in 
this  place  to-day. 

Fardy.     I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 

Hyacinth.  To  have  left  Carrow,  if  it  was  a  poor  place,  where 
I  had  my  comrades,  and  an  odd  spree,  and  a  game  of  cards — and 
a  coursing-match  coming  on,  and  I  promised  a  new  greyhound 
from  the  city  of  Cork.  I'll  die  in  this  place,  the  way  I  am.  I'll 
be  too  much  closed  in. 

Fardy.     Sure  it  mightn't  be  as  bad  as  what  you  think. 

Hyacinth.  Will  you  tell  me,  I  ask  you,  what  way  can  I  undo 
it? 

Fardy.     What  is  it  you  are  wanting  to  undo  ? 

Hyacinth.  Will  you  tell  me  what  way  can  I  get  rid  of  my 
character  ? 

Fardy.     To  get  rid  of  it,  is  it  ? 

Hyacinth.  That  is  what  I  said.  Aren't  you  after  hearing 
the  great  character  they  are  after  putting  on  me  ? 

Fardy.     That  is  a  good  thing  to  have. 

Hyacinth.  It  is  not.  It's  the  worst  in  the  world.  If  I 
hadn't  it,  I  wouldn't  be  like  a  prize  mangold  at  a  show,  with  every 
person  praising  me. 

Fardy.  If  I  had  it,  I  wouldn't  be  like  a  head  in  a  barrel,  with 
every  person  making  hits  at  me. 

Hyacinth.  If  I  hadn't  it,  I  wouldn't  be  shoved  into  a  room 
with  all  the  clergy  watching  me  and  the  police  in  the  back  yard. 

Fardy.  If  I  had  it,  I  wouldn't  be  but  a  message-carrier  now, 
and  a  clapper  scaring  birds  in  the  summer-time. 

Hyacinth.  If  I  hadn't  it,  I  wouldn't  be  wearing  this  button 
and  brought  up  for  an  example  at  the  meeting. 

Fardy.  [Whistles.]  Maybe  you're  not  so,  what  those  papers 
make  you  out  to  be  ? 


116  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Hyacinth.  How  would  I  be  what  they  make  me  out  to  be  ? 
Was  there  ever  any  person  of  that  sort  since  the  world  was  a 
world,  unless  it  might  be  Saint  Antony  of  Padua  looking  down 
from  the  chapel  wall  ?  If  it  is  like  that  I  was,  isn't  it  in  Mount 
Melleray  I  would  be,  or  with  the  friars  at  Esker  ?  ^\hy  would 
I  be  living  in  the  world  at  all,  or  doing  the  world's  work  ? 

Fardy.  [Taking  up  parcel.]  Who  would  think,  now,  there 
would  be  so  much  lies  in  a  small  place  like  Carrow  ? 

Hyacinth.  It  was  my  mother's  cousin  did  it.  He  said  I  was 
not  reared  for  laboring — he  gave  me  a  new  suit  and  bid  me  never 
to  come  back  again.  I  daren't  go  back  to  face  him — the  neigh- 
bors knew  my  mother  had  a  long  family — bad  luck  to  them  the 
day  they  gave  me  these.  [Tears  letters  and  scatters  them.]  I'm 
done  with  testimonials.  They  won't  be  here  to  bear  witness 
against  me. 

Fardy.  The  sergeant  thought  them  to  be  great.  Sure  he  has 
the  samples  of  them  in  his  pocket.  There's  not  one  in  the  town 
but  will  know  before  morning  that  you  are  the  next  thing  to  an 
earthly  saint. 

Hyacinth.  [Stamping.]  I'll  stop  their  mouths.  I'll  show 
them  I  can  be  a  terror  for  badness.  I'll  do  some  injury.  I'll 
commit  some  crime.  The  first  thing  I'll  do  I'll  go  and  get  drunk. 
If  I  never  did  it  before  I'll  do  it  now.  I'll  get  drunk — then  I'll 
make  an  assault — I  tell  you  I'd  think  as  little  of  taking  a  life  as 
of  blowmg  out  a  candle. 

Fardy.  If  you  get  drunk  you  are  done  for.  Sure  that  will 
be  held  up  after  as  an  excuse  for  any  breaking  of  the  law. 

Hyacinth.  I  will  break  the  law.  Drunk  or  sober,  I'll  break 
it.  I'll  do  something  that  will  have  no  excuse.  ^Miat  would 
you  say  is  the  worst  crime  that  any  man  can  do.? 

Fardy.  I  don't  know.  I  heard  the  sergeant  saj-ing  one  time 
it  was  to  obstruct  the  police  in  the  discharge  of  their  dutj' 

Hyacinth.  That  won't  do.  It's  a  patriot  I  would  be  then, 
worse  than  before,  with  my  picture  in  the  weeklies.     It's  a  red 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  117 

crime  I  must  commit  that  will  make  all  respectable  people  quit 
minding  me.     What  can  I  do?     Search  your  mind  now. 

Fardy.  It's  what  I  heard  the  old  people  saying  there  could 
be  no  worse  crime  than  to  steal  a  sheep 

Hyacinth.  I'll  steal  a  sheep — or  a  cow — or  a  horse — if  that 
will  leave  me  the  way  I  was  before. 

Fardy.     It's  maybe  in  jail  it  will  leave  you. 

Hyacinth.  I  don't  care — I'll  confess — I'll  tell  why  I  did  it — 
I  give  you  my  word  I  would  as  soon  be  picking  oakum  or  breaking 
stones  as  to  be  perched  in  the  daylight  the  same  as  that  bird,  and 
all  the  town  chirruping  to  me  or  bidding  me  chirrup 

Fardy.     There  is  reason  in  that,  now. 

Hyacinth.     Help  me,  will  you  .^ 

Fardy.  Well,  if  it  is  to  steal  a  sheep  you  want,  you  haven't 
far  to  go. 

Hyacinth.  [Looking  around  wildly.]  Where  is  it.^  I  see  no 
sheep. 

Fardy.     Look  around  you. 

Hyacinth.     I  see  no  living  thing  but  that  thrush 

Fardy.  Did  I  say  it  was  living.?  What  is  that  hanging  on 
Quirke's  rack  ? 

Hyacinth.     It's  [fingers  it]  a  sheep,  sure  enough 

Fardy.     Well,  what  ails  you  that  you  can't  bring  it  away  ? 

Hyacinth.     It's  a  dead  one 

Fardy.     What  matter  if  it  is  ? 

Hyacinth.     If  it  was  living  I  could  drive  it  before  me 

Fardy.  You  could.  Is  it  to  your  own  lodging  you  would 
drive  it  ?  Sure  every  one  would  take  it  to  be  a  pet  you  brought 
from  Carrow. 

Hyacinth.     I  suppose  they  might. 

Fardy.  Miss  Joyce  sending  in  for  news  of  it  and  it  bleating 
behind  the  bed. 

Hyacinth.     [Distracted.]     Stop !  stop ! 


118  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mrs.  Delane.  [From  upper  window.]  Fardy!  Are  you 
there,  Fardy  Farrell  ? 

Fardy,     I  am,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Delane.  [From  window.]  Look  and  tell  me  is  that 
the  telegraph  I  hear  ticking  ? 

Fardy.     [Looking  in  at  door.]     It  is,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Then  botheration  to  it,  and  I  not  dressed  or 
undressed.  Wouldn't  you  say,  now,  it's  to  annoy  me  it  is  calling 
me  down.     I'm  coming  !     I'm  coming  !  [Disappears. 

Fardy.  Hurry  on,  now !  Hurry !  She'll  be  coming  out  on 
you.  If  you  are  going  to  do  it,  do  it,  and  if  you  are  not,  let  it 
alone. 

Hyacinth.     I'll  do  it !    I'll  do  it ! 

Fardy.  [Lifting  the  sheep  on  his  back.]  I'll  give  you  a  hand 
with  it. 

Hyacinth.  [Goes  a  step  or  two  and  turns  round.]  You  told 
me  no  place  where  I  could  hide  it. 

Fardy.  You  needn't  go  far.  There  is  the  church  beyond  at 
the  side  of  the  square.  Go  round  to  the  ditch  behind  the  wall — 
there's  nettles  in  it. 

Hyacinth.     That'll  do. 

Fardy.     She's  coming  out — run  !  run  ! 

Hyacinth.     [Runs  a  step  or  two.]     It's  slipping ! 

Fardy.     Hoist  it  up.     I'll  give  it  a  hoist ! 
[Halyey  runs  out. 

Mrs.  Delane.  [Calling  out.]  What  are  you  doing,  Fardy 
Farrell  ?     Is  it  idling  you  are  ? 

Fardy.     Waiting  I  am,  ma'am,  for  the  message 


Mrs.  Del.\ne.  Never  mind  the  message  yet.  Who  said  it 
was  ready.?  [Going  to  door.]  Go  ask  for  the  loan  of — no,  but 
ask  news  of —  Here,  now  go  bring  that  bag  of  'Mi.  Halvey's  to 
the  lodging  Miss  Joyce  has  taken 

Fardy.     I  will,  ma'am.  [Takes  bag  and  goes  out. 

Mrs.  Delane.     [Cmning  out  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand.]    No- 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  119 

body  here  ?  [Looks  round  and  calls  cautiously.]  Mr.  Quirke ! 
Mr.  Quirke  !     James  Quirke  ! 

IVIr.  Quirke.  [Looking  out  of  his  upper  window,  with  soap- 
suddy  face.]     What  is  it,  Mrs.  Delane  ^ 

Mrs.  Delane.     [Beckoning.]     Come  down  here  till  I  tell  you. 

Mr.  Quirke.     I  cannot  do  that.     I'm  not  fully  shaved. 

Mrs.  Delane.     You'd  come  if  you  knew  the  news  I  have. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Tell  it  to  me  now.     I'm  not  so  supple  as  I  was. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Whisper  now,  have  you  an  enemy  in  any 
place  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     It's  likely  I  may  have.     A  man  in  business 

Mrs.  Delane.     I  was  thinking  you  had  one. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Why  would  you  think  that  at  this  time  more 
than  any  other  time  ^ 

Mrs.  Delane.  If  you  could  know  what  is  in  this  envelope 
you  would  know  that,  James  Quirke. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Is  that  so  ?     And  what,  now,  is  there  in  it  ^ 

Mrs.  Delane.     Who  do  you  think  now  is  it  addressed  to  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     How  would  I  know  that,  and  I  not  seeing  it  "^ 

Mrs.  Delane.  That  is  true.  Well,  it  is  a  message  from 
Dublin  Castle  to  the  sergeant  of  police ! 

Mr.  Quirke.     To  Sergeant  Carden,  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.     It  is.     And  it  concerns  yourself. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Myself,  is  it,^  What  accusation  can  they  be 
bringing  against  me?     I'm  a  peaceable  man. 

Mrs.  Delane.     Wait  till  you  hear. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Maybe  they  think  I  was  in  that  moonlighting 
case 

Mrs.  Delane.     That  is  not  it 


Mr.  Quirke.  I  was  not  in  it — I  was  but  in  the  neighboring 
field — cutting  up  a  dead  cow,  that  those  never  had  a  hand  in 

Mrs.  Delane.     You're  out  of  it 

Mr.  Quirke.  They  had  their  faces  blackened.  There  is  no 
man  can  say  I  recognized  them. 


120  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mrs.  Delane.     That's  not  what  they're  saying 

IVIr.  Quirke.  I'll  swear  I  did  not  hear  their  voices  or  know 
them  if  I  did  hear  them. 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  tell  you  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  that.  It 
might  be  better  for  you  if  it  had. 

Mr.  Quirke.     What  is  it,  so  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  It  is  an  order  to  the  sergeant,  bidding  him 
immediately  to  seize  all  suspicious  meat  in  your  house.  There 
is  an  officer  coming  down.  There  are  complaints  from  the  Shan- 
non Fort  Barracks. 

Mr.  Quirke.     I'll  engage  it  was  that  pork. 

Mrs.  Delane.     What  ailed  it  for  them  to  find  fault  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  People  are  so  hard  to  please  nowadays,  and  I 
recommended  them  to  salt  it. 

Mrs.  Delane.  They  had  a  right  to  have  minded  your  ad- 
vice. 

Mr.  Quirke.  There  was  nothing  on  that  pig  at  all  but  that 
it  went  mad  on  poor  O' Grady  that  owned  it. 

Mrs.  Delane.     So  I  heard,  and  went  killing  all  before  it. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Sure  it's  only  in  the  brain  madness  can  be.  I 
heard  the  doctor  saying  that. 

Mrs.  Delane.     He  should  know. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  give  you  my  word  I  cut  the  head  off  it.  I 
went  to  the  loss  of  it,  throwing  it  to  the  eels  in  the  river.  If  they 
had  salted  the  meat,  as  I  advised  them,  what  harm  would  it  have 
done  to  any  person  on  earth  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  hope  no  harm  will  come  on  poor  Mrs. 
Quirke  and  the  family. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Maybe  it  wasn't  that  but  some  other  thing 

Mrs.  Delane.  Here  is  Fardy.  I  must  send  the  message  to 
the  sergeant.  Well,  Mr.  Quirke,  I'm  glad  I  had  the  time  to  give 
you  a  warning. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  indeed.  You  were  always 
very  neighborly,  Mrs.  Delane.     Don't  be  too  quick  now  sending 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  121 

the  message.     There  is  just  one  article  I  would  like  to  put  away 
out  of  the  house  before  the  sergeant  will  come. 
[Enter  Fardy. 

Mrs.  Delane.     Here  now,  Fardy — that's  not  the  way  you're 
going  to  the  barracks.     Any  one  would  think  you  were  scaring 
birds  yet.     Put  on  your  uniform. 
[Fardy  goes  into  office. 

Mrs.  Delane.     You  have  this  message  to  bring  to  the  ser- 
geant of  police.     Get  your  cap  now ;  it's  under  the  counter. 
[Fardy  reappears,  and  she  gives  him  telegram. 

Fardy.  I'll  bring  it  to  the  station.  It's  there  he  was 
going. 

Mrs.  Delajste.  You  will  not,  but  to  the  barracks.  It  can 
wait  for  him  there. 

[Fardy  goes  off.     Mr.  Quirke  has  appeared  at  door. 

Mr.  Quirke.  It  was  indeed  a  very  neighborly  act,  Mrs. 
Delane,  and  I'm  obliged  to  you.  There  is  just  one  article  to  put 
out  of  the  way.  The  sergeant  may  look  about  him  then  and 
welcome.  It's  well  I  cleared  the  premises  on  yesterday.  A  con- 
signment to  Birmingham  I  sent.  The  Lord  be  praised,  isn't 
England  a  terrible  country,  with  all  it  consumes  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  Indeed,  you  always  treat  the  neighbors  very 
decent,  Mr.  Quirke,  not  asking  them  to  buy  from  you. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Just  one  article.  [Turns  to  rack.]  That  sheep 
I  brought  in  last  night.  It  was  for  a  charity,  indeed,  I  bought  it 
from  the  widow  woman  at  Kiltartan  Cross.  ^Vhere  would  the 
poor  make  a  profit  out  of  their  dead  meat  without  me  "^  Where 
now  is  it.''  Well,  now,  I  could  have  swore  that  that  sheep  was 
hanging  there  on  the  rack  when  I  went  in 

Mrs.  Delane.     You  must  have  put  it  in  some  other  place. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Going  in  and  searching  and  coming  out.\  I  did 
not;  there  is  no  other  place  for  me  to  put  it.  Is  it  gone  blind  I 
am,  or  is  it  not  in  it,  it  is  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.     It's  not  there  now,  anyway. 


122  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mr.  Quirke.  Didn't  you  take  notice  of  it  there,  yourself, 
this  morning  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  have  it  in  my  mind  that  I  did;  but  it's  not 
there  now. 

Mr.  Quirke.     There  was  no  one  here  could  bring  it  away .'' 

Mrs.  Delane.  Is  it  me,  myself,  you  suspect  of  taking  it, 
James  Quirke .? 

Mr.  Quirke.  Where  is  it  at  all  ?  It  is  certain  it  was  not  of 
itself  it  walked  away.  It  was  dead,  and  very  dead,  the  time  I 
bought  it. 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  have  a  pleasant  neighbor,  indeed,  that  ac- 
cuses me  that  I  took  his  sheep.  I  wonder,  indeed,  you  to  say  a 
thing  like  that !  I  to  steal  your  sheep  or  your  rack  or  anything 
that  belongs  to  you  or  to  your  trade !  Thank  you,  James  Quirke. 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed. 

Mr.  Quirke.    Ah,  be  quiet,  woman;  be  quiet 

Mrs.  Delane.  And  let  me  tell  you,  James  Quirke,  that  I 
would  sooner  starve  and  see  every  one  belonging  to  me  starve 
than  to  eat  the  size  of  a  thimble  of  any  joint  that  ever  was  on 
your  rack  or  that  ever  will  be  on  it,  whatever  the  soldiers  may 
eat  that  have  no  other  thing  to  get,  or  the  English,  that  devour 
all  sorts,  or  the  poor  ravenous  people  that's  down  by  the  sea ! 

[She  turns  to  go  into  shop. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Stopping  her.]  Don't  be  talking  foolishness, 
woman.  Who  said  you  took  my  meat  ^  Give  heed  to  me  now. 
There  must  some  other  message  have  come.  The  sergeant  must 
have  got  some  other  message. 

Mrs.  Delane.  [Sulkily.]  If  there  is  any  way  for  a  message 
to  come  that  is  quicker  than  to  come  by  the  wires,  tell  me  what 
it  is,  and  I'll  be  obliged  to  you. 

Mr.  Quirke.  The  sergeant  was  up  here,  making  an  excuse 
he  was  sticking  up  that  notice.  AMiat  was  he  doing  here,  I  ask 
you? 

Mrs.  Delane.     How  would  I  know  what  brought  him  ? 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  123 

Mr.  Quirke.  It  Is  what  he  did;  he  made  as  if  to  go  away — 
he  turned  back  again  and  I  shaving — he  brought  away  the  sheep 
— he  will  have  it  for  evidence  against  me 

Mrs.  Delane.     [Interested.]     That  might  be  so. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  would  sooner  it  to  have  been  any  other  beast 
nearly  ever  I  had  upon  the  rack. 

Mrs.  Delane.     Is  that  so  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  bade  the  Widow  Early  to  kill  it  a  fortaight 
ago — but  she  would  not,  she  was  that  covetous ! 

Mrs.  Delane.     "What  was  on  it  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  How  would  I  know  what  was  on  it  ?  What- 
ever was  on  it,  it  was  the  will  of  God  put  it  upon  it — wasted  it 
was,  and  shivering  and  refusing  its  share. 

Mrs.  Delane.    The  poor  thing. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Gone  all  to  nothing — wore  away  like  a  flock 
of  thread.     It  did  not  weigh  as  much  as  a  lamb  of  two  months. 

Mrs.  Delane.  It  is  likely  the  inspector  will  bring  it  to  Dub- 
lin.? 

Mr.  Quirke.  The  ribs  of  it  streaky  with  the  dint  of  patent 
medicines 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  wonder  is  it  to  the  Petty  Sessions  you'll  be 
brought  or  is  it  to  the  Assizes  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  I'll  speak  up  to  them.  I'll  make  my  defense. 
What  can  the  army  expect  at  fippence  a  pound  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.     It  is  likely  there  will  be  no  bail  allowed  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  Would  they  be  wanting  me  to  give  them  good 
quality  meat  out  of  my  own  pocket  ?  Is  it  to  encourage  them 
to  fight  the  poor  Indians  and  Africans  they  would  have  me? 
It's  the  Anti-Enlisting  Societies  should  pay  the  fine  for  me. 

Mrs.  Delane.  It's  not  a  fine  will  be  put  on  you,  I'm  afraid. 
It's  five  years  in  jail  you  will  be  apt  to  be  getting.  Well,  I'll 
try  and  be  a  good  neighbor  to  poor  Mrs.  Quirke. 

[Mr.  Quirke,  who  has  been  stamping  up  and  down,  sits 


lU  LADY  AUGUSTA  GREGORY 

down  and  weeps.    Halvey  comes  in  and  stands  on  one 
side. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Hadn't  I  heart-scalding  enough  before,  striving 
to  rear  five  weak  children  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.     I  suppose  they  will  be  sent  to  the  Industrial 
Schools  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     My  poor  wife 

Mrs.  Delane.     I'm  afraid  the  workhouse 

Mr.  Quirke.     And  she  out  in  an  ass-car  at  this  minute,  help- 
ing me  to  follow  my  trade. 

Mrs.  Delane.    I  hope  they  will  not  arrest  her  along  with  you. 

Mr.    Quirke.     I'll   give   myself   up   to   justice.     I'll   plead 
guilty !     I'll  be  recommended  to  mercy  ! 

Mrs.  Delane.     It  might  be  best  for  you. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Who  would  think  so  great  a  misfortune  could 
come  upon  a  family  through  the  bringing  away  of  one  sheep ! 

Hyacinth.     [Coming  forward.]     Let  you  make  yourself  easy. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Easy  !     It's  easy  to  say  let  you  make  yourself 
easy. 

Hyacinth.     I  can  tell  you  where  it  is. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Where  what  is? 

Hyacinth.     The  sheep  you  are  fretting  after. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Wliat  do  you  know  about  it.? 

Hyacinth.     I  know  everything  about  it. 

Mr.  Quirke.    I  suppose  the  sergeant  told  you  ? 

Hyacinth.     He  told  me  nothing. 

Mr.  Quirke.     I  suppose  the  whole  town  knows  it,  so  ? 

Hyacinth.     No  one  knows  it,  as  yet. 

Mr.  Quirke.     And  the  sergeant  didn't  see  it  ? 

Hyacinth.     No  one  saw  it  or  brought  it  away  but  myself. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Where  did  you  put  it  at  all  ? 

Hyacinth.     In  the  ditch  behind  the  church  wall.     In  among 
the  nettles  it  is.     Look  at  the  way  they  have  me  stung. 

[Holds  Old  hands. 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  125 

Mr.  Quirke.  In  the  ditch !  The  best  hiding-place  in  the 
town. 

Hyacinth.  I  never  thought  it  would  bring  such  great  trouble 
upon  you.     You  can't  say,  anyway,  I  did  not  tell  you. 

Mr.  Quirke.  You,  yourself,  that  brought  it  away  and  that 
hid  it !  I  suppose  it  was  coming  in  the  train  you  got  informa- 
tion about  the  message  to  the  police. 

Hyacinth.     ^Nhat  now  do  you  say  to  me  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  Say!  I  say  I  am  as  glad  to  hear  what  you 
said  as  if  it  was  the  Lord  telling  me  I'd  be  in  heaven  this  minute. 

Hyacinth.     What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  Do,  is  it.^^  [Grcisps  his  hand.]  Any  earthly 
thing  you  w^ould  wish  me  to  do,  I  will  do  it. 

Hyacinth.     I  suppose  you  will  tell 

Mr.  Quirke.  Tell !  It's  I  that  will  tell  when  all  is  quiet. 
It  is  I  will  give  you  the  good  name  through  the  town ! 

Hyacinth.     I  don't  well  understand. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Embracing  him.]  The  man  that  preserved 
me! 

Hyacinth.     That  preserved  you  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     That  kept  me  from  ruin ! 

Hyacinth.     From  ruin  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     That  saved  me  from  disgrace  ! 

Hyacinth.     [To  Mrs.  Delane.]     What  is  he  saying  at  all  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     From  the  inspector ! 

Hyacinth.     What  is  he  talking  about  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     From  the  magistrates ! 

Hyacinth.     He  is  making  some  mistake. 

Mr.  Quirke.     From  the  Winter  Assizes ! 

Hyacinth.     Is  he  out  of  his  wits  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     Five  years  in  jail ! 

Hyacinth.     Hasn't  he  the  queer  talk  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     The  loss  of  the  contract ! 

Hyacinth.     Are  my  own  wits  gone  astray  ? 


126  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mr.  QumKE.     What  way  can  I  repay  you  ? 

Hyacinth.     [Slwuting.]     I  tell  you  I  took  the  sheep ■ 

Mr.  Quirkje.     You  did,  God  reward  you  ! 

Hyacinth.     I  stole  away  with  it 

]VIr.  Quirke.     The  blessing  of  the  poor  on  you ! 

Hyacinth.     I  put  it  out  of  sight 

Mr.  Quirke.     The  blessing  of  my  five  children 

Hyacinth.     I  may  as  well  say  nothing 

Mrs.  Delane.     Let  you  be  quiet  now,  Quirke.     Here's  the 

sergeant  coming  to  search  the  shop) 

[Sergeant  comes  in.     Querke  leaves  go  of  Halvey,  who 
arranges  his  hxit,  etc. 

Sergeant.     The  dept.  tment  to  blazes  ! 

Mrs.  Delane.     What  is  it  is  putting  you  out  ? 

Sergeant.  To  go  to  the  train  to  meet  the  lecturer,  and  there 
to  get  a  message  through  the  guard  that  he  was  unavoidably  de- 
tained in  the  South,  holding  an  inquest  on  the  remains  of  a  drake. 

Mrs.  Delane.     The  lecturer,  is  it  ? 

Sergeant.  To  be  sure.  What  else  would  I  be  talkmg  of  .^^ 
The  lecturer  has  failed  me,  and  where  am  I  to  go  looking  for  a 
person  that  I  would  think  fitting  to  take  his  place  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  And  that's  all?  And  you  didn't  get  any 
message  but  the  one  ? 

Sergeant.  Is  that  all  ?  I  am  surprised  at  you,  J\Irs.  Delane. 
Isn't  it  enough  to  upset  a  man,  within  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
of  the  time  of  the  meeting  ?  Wliere,  I  would  ask  you,  am  I  to 
find  a  man  that  has  education  enough  and  wit  enough  and  char- 
acter enough  to  put  up  speaking  on  the  platform  on  the  minute  ? 

]VIr.  Quirke.     [Jumps  up.]     It  is  I,  myself,  will  tell  you  that. 

Sergeant.     You ! 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Slapping  Halvey  on  the  back.]  Look  at  here. 
Sergeant.  There  is  not  one  word  was  said  in  all  those  papers 
about  this  j'oung  man  before  you  but  it  is  true.  And  there  could 
be  no  good  thing  said  of  him  that  would  be  too  good  for  him. 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  127 

Sergeant.     It  might  not  be  a  bad  idea. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Whatever  the  paper  said  about  him,  Sergeant, 
I  can  say  more  again.  It  has  come  to  my  knowledge — by  chance 
— that  since  he  came  to  this  town  that  young  man  has  saved  a 
whole  family  from  destruction. 

Sergeant.  That  is  much  to  his  credit — helping  the  rural 
classes 

Mr.  Quirke.  A  family  and  a  long  family,  big  and  little,  like 
sods  of  turf — and  they  depending  on  a — on  one  that  might  be 
on  his  way  to  dark  trouble  at  this  minute  if  it  was  not  for  his 
assistance.  Believe  me,  he  is  the  most  sensible  man,  and  the 
wittiest,  and  the  kindest,  and  the  best  helper  of  the  poor  that 
ever  stood  before  you  in  this  square.  Is  not  that  so,  Mrs. 
Delane  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  It  is  true,  indeed.  Where  he  gets  his  wis- 
dom and  his  wit  and  his  information  from  I  don't  know,  unless  it 
might  be  that  he  is  gifted  from  above. 

Sergeant.  Well,  Mrs.  Delane,  I  think  we  have  settled  that 
question.  Mr.  Halvey,  you  will  be  the  speaker  at  the  meeting. 
The  lecturer  sent  these  notes — you  can  lengthen  them  into  a 
speech.  You  can  call  to  the  people  of  Cloon  to  stand  out,  to 
begin  the  building  of  their  character.  I  saw  a  lecturer  do  it  one 
time  at  Dundrum.  "Come  up  here,"  he  said;  "Dare  to  be  a 
Daniel,"  he  said 

Hyacinth.     I  can't — I  won't 


Sergeant.  [Looking  at  papers  and  thrusting  them  into  his 
hand.]  You  will  find  it  quite  easy.  I  will  conduct  you  to  the 
platform — these  papers  before  you  and  a  glass  of  water — that's 
settled.  [Turns  to  go.]  Follow  me  on  to  the  court-house  in 
half  an  hour — I  must  go  to  the  barracks  first — ^I  heard  there  was 
a  telegram —  [Calls  back  as  he  goes.]  Don't  be  late,  Mrs.  De- 
lane.    Mind,  Quirke,  you  promised  to  come. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Well,  it's  time  for  me  to  make  an  end  of  set- 
tling myself — and,  indeed,  Mr.  Quirke,  you'd  best  do  the  same. 


128  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Rubbing  his  cheek.]  I  suppose  so.  I  had  best 
keep  on  good  terms  with  him  for  the  present.  [Turns.]  Well, 
now,  I  had  a  great  escape  this  day. 

[Both  go  in  as  Fardy  reappears,  whistling. 

Hyacinth.  [Sitting  down.]  I  don't  know  in  the  w^orld  what 
has  come  upon  the  world  that  the  half  of  the  people  of  it  should 
be  cracked .' 

Fardy.     Weren't  you  found  out  yet  ? 

Hyacinth.  Found  out,  is  it  ?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean 
by  being  found  out. 

Fardy.     Didn't  he  miss  the  sheep  ? 

Hyacinth,  He  did,  and  I  told  him  it  was  I  took  it — and  what 
happened  I  declare  to  goodness  I  don't  know —  Will  you  look 
at  these  ?  [Holds  out  notes. 

Fardy.     Papers !     Are  they  more  testimonials  ? 

Hyacinth.  They  are  what  is  worse.  [Gives  a  hoarse  laugh.] 
Will  you  come  and  see  me  on  the  platform — these  in  my  hand — 
and  I  speaking — giving  out  advice.  [Fardy  whistles.]  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me,  the  time  you  advised  me  to  steal  a  sheep,  that 
in  this  town  it  would  qualify  a  man  to  go  preaching,  and  the 
priest  in  the  chair  looking  on  ? 

Fardy.  The  time  I  took  a  few  apples  that  had  fallen  oflf  a 
stall,  they  did  not  ask  me  to  hold  a  meeting.  They  welted  me 
well. 

Hyacinth.  [Looking  round.]  I  would  take  apples  if  I  could 
see  them.  I  wish  I  had  broke  my  neck  before  I  left  Carrow,  and 
I'd  be  better  off !  I  wish  I  had  got  six  months  the  time  I  was 
caught  setting  snares — I  wish  I  had  robbed  a  church. 

Fardy.     Would  a  Protestant  church  do  ? 

Hyacinth.     I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  so  great  a  sin. 

Fardy.  It's  likely  the  sergeant  would  think  worse  of  it.  Any- 
way, if  you  want  to  rob  one,  it's  the  Protestant  church  is  the 
handiest. 

Hyacinth.     [Getting  up.]     Show  me  what  way  to  do  it.? 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  129 

Fardy.  [Pointing.]  I  was  going  around  it  a  few  minutes  ago, 
to  see  might  there  be  e'er  a  dog  scenting  the  sheep,  and  I  noticed 
the  window  being  out. 

Hyacinth.     Out,  out  and  out.? 

Fardy.  It  was,  where  they  are  putting  colored  glass  in  it  for 
the  distiller 

Hyacinth.     What  good  does  that  do  me  ? 

Fardy.  Every  good.  You  could  go  in  by  that  window  if  you 
had  some  person  to  give  you  a  hoist.  Whatever  riches  there  is 
to  get  in  it  then,  you'll  get  them. 

Hyacinth.  I  don't  want  riches.  I'll  give  you  all  I  will  find 
if  you  will  come  and  hoist  me. 

Fardy.  Here  is  Miss  Joyce  coming  to  bring  you  to  your  lodg- 
ing. Sure  I  brought  your  bag  to  it,  the  time  you  were  away 
with  the  sheep 

Hyacinth.     Run !    Run ! 

[They  go  off.    Enter  Miss  Joyce.  ; 

Miss  Joyce.  Are  you  here,  Mrs.  Delane  ?  Where,  can  you 
tell  me,  is  Mr.  Halvey  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  [Coming  out  dressed.]  It's  likely  he  is  gone 
on  to  the  court-house.  Did  you  hear  he  is  to  be  in  the  chair 
and  to  make  an  address  to  the  meeting  ? 

Miss  Joyce.     He  is  getting  on  fast.     His  reverence  says  he 
will  be  a  good  help  in  the  parish.     Who  would  think,  now,  there 
would  be  such  a  godly  young  man  in  a  little  place  like  Carrow ! 
[Enter  Sergeant  in  a  hurry,  with  telegram. 

Sergeant.     W^hat  time  did  this  telegram  arrive,  Mrs.  Delane  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  couldn't  be  rightly  sure.  Sergeant.  But 
sure  it's  marked  on  it,  unless  the  clock  I  have  is  gone  wrong. 

Sergeant.  It  is  marked  on  it.  And  I  have  the  time  I  got  it 
marked  on  my  own  watch. 

Mrs.  Delane.  Well,  now,  I  wonder  none  of  the  police  would 
have  followed  you  with  it  from  the  barracks — and  they  with  so 
little  to  do 


130  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Sergeant.  [Looking  in  at  Quirke's  shop.]  Well,  I  am  sorry 
to  do  what  I  have  to  do,  but  duty  is  duty. 

[He  ransacks  shop.     IVIrs.  Delajste  looks  on.     ]Mr.  Quirke 
puts  his  head  out  of  window. 

Mr.  Quirke.  What  is  that  going  on  inside?  [No  answer.] 
Is  there  any  one  inside,  I  ask?  [No  answer.]  It  must  be  that 
dog  of  Tannian's — wait  till  I  get  at  him. 

Mrs.  Delane.     It   is   Sergeant   Garden,    Mr.    Quirke.     He 

would  seem  to  be  looking  for  something 

[Mr.   Quirke  appears  in  shop.     Sergeant  conies  out, 
makes  another  dive,  taking  up  sacks,  etc. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I'm  greatly  afraid  I  am  just  out  of  meat,  Ser- 
geant— and  I'm  sorry  now  to  disoblige  you,  and  you  not  being 
in  the  habit  of  dealing  with  me 

Sergeant.    I  should  think  not,  indeed. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Looking  for  a  tender  little  bit  of  lamb,  I  sup- 
pose you  are,  for  Mrs.  Garden  and  the  youngsters  ? 

Sergeant.     I  am  not. 

Mr.  Quirke.  If  I  had  it  now,  I'd  be  proud  to  offer  it  to  you, 
and  make  no  charge.  I'll  be  killing  a  good  kid  to-morrow. 
Mrs.  Garden  might  fancy  a  bit  of  it 

Sergeant.  I  have  had  orders  to  search  your  establishment 
for  unwholesome  meat,  and  I  am  come  here  to  do  it. 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Sitting  doimi  with  a  smile.]  Is  that  so?  Well, 
isn't  it  a  wonder  the  schemers  does  be  in  the  world. 

Sergeant.     It  is  not  the  first  time  there  have  been  complaints. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  suppose  not.  Well,  it  is  on  their  own  head 
it  will  fall  at  the  last ! 

Sergeant.     I  have  found  nothing  so  far. 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  suppose  not,  indeed.  What  is  there  you 
could  find,  and  it  not  in  it? 

Sergeant.     Have  you  no  meat  at  all  upon  the  premises  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     I  have,  iudeed,  a  nice  barrel  of  bacon. 

Sergeant.     What  way  did  it  die  ? 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  131 

Mr.  Quirke.  It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  say  that.  Ameri- 
can it  is.  How  would  I  know  what  way  they  do  be  killing  the 
pigs  out  there  ?  Machinery,  I  suppose,  they  have — steam-ham- 
mers  

Sergeant.     Is  there  nothing  else  here  at  all  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.  I  give  you  my  word,  there  is  no  meat,  living 
or  dead,  in  this  place,  but  yourself  and  myself  and  that  bird 
above  in  the  cage. 

Sergeant.  Well,  I  must  tell  the  inspector  I  could  find  noth- 
ing.    But  mind  yom*self  for  the  future. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Thank  you,  Sergeant.     I  will  do  that. 
[Enter  Fardy.     He  stops  short. 

Sergeant.  It  was  you  delayed  that  message  to  me,  I  sup- 
pose ?  You'd  best  mend  your  ways  or  I'll  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  [Seizes  and  shakes  him. 

Fardy.     That's  the  way  every  one  does  be  faulting  me. 

[Whimpers. 
[The  Sergeant  gives  him  another  shake.     A  half-crown 
falls  out  of  his  pocket. 

Miss  Joyce.  [Picking  it  up.]  A  half-a-crown !  Where,  now, 
did  you  get  that  much,  Fardy  ? 

Fardy.     Where  did  I  get  it,  is  it  ? 

Miss  Joyce.     I'll  engage  it  was  in  no  honest  way  you  got  it. 

Fardy.     I  picked  it  up  in  the  street 

Miss  Joyce.  If  you  did,  why  didn't  you  bring  it  to  the  ser- 
geant or  to  his  reverence  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.  And  some  poor  person,  maybe,  being  at  the 
loss  of  it. 

Miss  Joyce.  I'd  best  bring  it  to  his  reverence.  Come  with 
me,  Fardy,  till  he  will  question  you  about  it. 

Fardy.     It  was  not  altogether  in  the  street  I  found  it 

Miss  Joyce.  There,  now!  I  knew  you  got  it  in  no  good 
way !     Tell  me,  now. 

Fardy.     It  was  playing  pitch  and  toss  I  won  it 


132  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Miss  Joyce.  And  who  would  play  for  half-crowns  with  the 
like  of  you,  Fardy  Farrell  ?     Who  was  it,  now  ? 

Fardy.     It  was — a  stranger 

Miss  Joyce.  Do  you  hear  that  ?  A  stranger !  Did  you  see 
e'er  a  stranger  in  this  town,  Mrs.  Delane,  or  Sergeant  Garden,  or 
Mr.  Quirke? 

Mr.  Quirke.     Not  a  one. 

SERGEAJ>fT.     There  was  no  stranger  here. 

Mrs.  Delane.  There  could  not  be  one  here  without  me 
knowing  it. 

Fardy.     I  tell  you  there  was. 

Miss  Joyce.  Come  on,  then,  and  tell  who  was  he  to  his  rev- 
erence. 

Sergeant.     [Taking  other  arm.]     Or  to  the  bench. 

Fardy.     I  did  get  it,  I  tell  you,  from  a  stranger. 

Sergeant.     Where  is  he,  so  ? 

Fardy.     He's  in  some  place — not  far  away. 

Sergeant.     Bring  me  to  him. 

Fardy.     He'll  be  coming  here. 

Sergeant.     Tell  me  the  truth  and  it  will  be  better  for  you. 

Fardy.     [Weeping.]     Let  me  go  and  I  will. 

Sergeant.     [Letting  go.]    Now — ^who  did  you  get  it  from.^ 

Fardy.     From  that  young  chap  came  to-day,  Mr.  Halvey. 

All.     Mr.  Halvey ! 

Mr.  Quirke.  [Indignantly.]  \\Tiat  are  you  saying,  you 
young  ruffian,  you  ?  Hyacinth  Halvey  to  be  playing  pitch  and 
toss  with  the  like  of  you ! 

Fardy.     I  didn't  say  that. 

Miss  Joyce.     You  did  say  it.    You  said  it  now. 

Mr.  Quirke.  Hyacinth  Halvey!  The  best  man  that  ever 
came  into  this  town  ! 

Miss  Joyce.     Well,  what  lies  he  has ! 

Mr.  Quirke.  It's  my  belief  the  half-crown  is  a  bad  one. 
Maybe  it's  to  pass  it  ofiF  it  was  given  to  him.     There  were  tinkers 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  133 

in  the  town  at  the  tune  of  the  fair.  Give  it  here  to  me.  [Bites 
it.]  No,  indeed,  it's  sound  enough.  Here,  Sergeant,  it's  best 
for  you  take  it.  [Gives  it  to  Sergeant,  who  examines  it. 

Sergeant.     Can  it  be  ?    Can  it  be  what  I  think  it  to  be  ? 

Mr.  Quirke.     What  is  it  ?    What  do  you  take  it  to  be  ? 

Sergeant.  It  is,  it  is.  I  know  it.  I  know  this  half- 
crown 

Mr.  Quirke.     That  is  a  queer  thing,  now. 

Sergeant.  I  know  it  well.  I  have  been  handling  it  in  the 
church  for  the  last  twelvemonth 

Mr.  Quirke.    Is  that  so  ? 

Sergeant.  It  is  the  nest-egg  half-crown  we  hand  round  in  the 
collection-plate  every  Sunday  morning.  I  know  it  by  the  dint 
on  the  Queen's  temples  and  the  crooked  scratch  imder  her 
nose. 

Mr.  Quirke.     [Examining  it.]     So  there  is,  too. 

Sergeant.  This  is  a  bad  business.  It  has  been  stolen  from 
the  church. 

All.    Oh!    Oh!    Oh! 

Sergeant.     [Seizing  Fardy.]    You  have  robbed  the  church ! 

Fardy.     [Terrified.]     I  tell  you  I  never  did ! 

Sergeant.    I  have  the  proof  of  it. 

Fardy.     Say  what  you  like !    I  never  put  a  foot  in  it ! 

Sergeant.    How  did  you  get  this,  so  ? 

Miss  Joyce.    I  suppose  from  the  stranger  f 

Mrs.  Delane.  I  suppose  it  was  Hyacinth  Halvey  gave  it  to 
you,  now  ? 

Fardy.     It  was  so. 

Sergeant.     I  suppose  it  was  he  robbed  the  church  ? 

Fardy.     [(S065.]    You  will  not  believe  me  if  I  say  it. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Oh !  the  young  vagabond !    Let  me  get  at  him ! 

Mrs.  Delane.     Here  he  is  himself  now ! 

[Hyacinth  comes  in.    Fardy  releases  himself  and  creeps 
behind  him. 


134  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Mrs.  Delane.  It  is  time  you  to  come,  Mr.  Halvey,  and  shut 
the  mouth  of  this  young  schemer. 

Miss  Joyce.  I  would  like  you  to  hear  what  he  says  of  you, 
Mr.  Halvey.     Pitch  and  toss,  he  says. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Robbery,  he  says. 

Mrs.  Delane.     Robbery  of  a  church. 

Sergeant.  He  has  had  a  bad  name  long  enough.  Let  him 
go  to  a  reformatory  now. 

Fardy.  [Clinging  to  Hyacinth.]  Save  me,  save  me !  I'm  a 
poor  boy  trying  to  knock  out  a  way  of  living;  I'll  be  destroyed  if 
I  go  to  a  reformatory.      [Kneels  and  clings  to  Hyacinth's  knees. 

Hyacinth.     I'll  save  you  easy  enough. 

Fardy.     Don't  let  me  be  jailed ! 

Hyacinth.     I  am  going  to  tell  them. 

Fardy.     I'm  a  poor  orphan 

Hyacinth.     Will  you  let  me  speak  ? 

Fardy.     I'll  get  no  more  chance  in  the  world 

Hyacinth.     Sure  I'm  trying  to  free  you 

Fardy.     It  will  be  tasked  to  me  always. 

Hyacinth.     Be  quiet,  can't  you  ? 

Fardy.     Don't  you  desert  me ! 

Hyacinth.     Will  you  be  silent  ? 

Fardy.     Take  it  on  yourself. 

Hyacinth.     I  will  if  you'll  let  me. 

Fardy.     Tell  them  you  did  it. 

Hyacinth.     I  am  going  to  do  that. 

Fardy.    Tell  them  it  was  you  got  in  at  the  window. 

Hyacinth.     I  will !    I  will ! 

Fardy.     Say  it  was  you  robbed  the  box. 

Hyacinth.     I'll  say  it !    I'll  say  it ! 

Fardy.     It  being  open  ! 

Hyacinth.     Let  me  tell,  let  me  tell. 

Fardy.     Of  all  that  was  in  it. 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  135 

Hyacinth.    I'll  tell  them  that. 

Fakdy.     And  gave  it  to  me. 

Hyacinth.  [Putting  hand  on  his  mouth  and  drO>gging  him  wp.] 
Will  you  stop  and  let  me  speak  ? 

Sergeant.  We  can't  be  wasting  time.  Give  him  here  to 
me. 

Hyacinth.     I  can't  do  that.    He  must  be  let  alone. 

Sergeant.     [Seizing  him.]    He'll  be  let  alone  in  the  lock-up. 

Hyacinth.     He  must  not  be  brought  there. 

Sergeant.    I'll  let  no  man  get  him  oflF. 

Hyacinth.     I  will  get  him  off. 

Sergeant.     You  will  not ! 

Hyacinth.     I  will. 

Sergeant.     Do  you  think  to  buy  him  off  ? 

Hyacinth.     I  will  buy  him  off  with  my  own  confession. 

Sergeant.    And  what  will  that  be  ? 

Hyacinth.     It  was  I  robbed  the  church. 

Sergeant.     That  is  likely  indeed ! 

Hyacinth.     Let  him  go,  and  take  me.     I  tell  you  I  did  it. 

Sergeant.     It  would  take  witnesses  to  prove  that. 

Hyacinth.     [Pointing  to  Fardy.]     He  will  be  witness. 

Fardy.  Oh,  Mr.  Halvey,  I  would  not  wish  to  do  that.  Get 
me  off  and  I  will  say  nothing. 

Hyacinth.  Sure  you  must.  You  will  be  put  on  oath  in  the 
court. 

Fardy.  I  will  not!  I  will  not!  All  the  world  knows  I  don't 
understand  the  nature  of  an  oath ! 

Mr.  Quirke.     [Coming  forward.]     Is  it  blind  ye  all  are  "^ 

Mrs.  Delane.     What  are  you  talking  about .? 

Mr.  Quirke.     Is  it  fools  ye  all  are  ? 

Miss  Joyce.     Speak  for  yourself. 

Mr.  Quirke.     Is  it  idiots  ye  all  are  ? 

Sergeant.     Mind  who  you're  talking  to. 

Mr.  Quirke.     [Seizing  Hyacinth's  hands.]    Can't  you  see? 


136  LADY    AUGUSTA    GREGORY 

Can't  you  hear  ?     Where  are  your  wits  ?     Was  ever  such  a  thing 
seen  in  this  town  ? 

Mrs.  Delane.     Say  out  what  you  have  to  say. 

Mr.  Quirke.     a  walking  saint  he  is  ! 

Mrs.  Delane.     Maybe  so. 

Mr.  Quirke.  The  preserver  of  the  poor !  Talk  of  the  holy 
martyrs !  They  are  nothing  at  all  to  what  he  is !  Will  you  look 
at  him !  To  save  that  poor  boy  he  is  going  !  To  take  the  blame 
on  himself  he  is  going !  To  say  he,  himself,  did  the  robbery  he 
is  going  !  Before  the  magistrate  he  is  going !  To  jail  he  is  go- 
ing !  Takmg  the  blame  on  his  own  head !  Putting  the  sin  on 
his  own  shoulders  !  Letting  on  to  have  done  a  robbery  !  Telling 
a  lie — that  it  may  be  forgiven  him — to  his  own  injury !  Doing 
all  that,  I  tell  you,  to  save  the  character  of  a  miserable  slack 
lad,  that  rose  in  poverty. 

[Murmur  of  admiration  from  all. 

Mr.  Quirke.    Now,  what  do  you  say  ? 

Sergeant.  [Pressing  his  hand.]  Mr.  Halvey,  you  have  given 
us  all  a  lesson.  To  please  you,  I  will  make  no  information 
against  the  boy.  [Shakes  him  and  helps  him  up.]  I  will  put  back 
the  half-crown  in  the  poor-box  next  Sunday.  [To  Fardt.] 
What  have  you  to  say  to  your  benefactor  ? 

Fardy.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Halvey.  You  behaved  very 
decent  to  me,  very  decent  indeed.  I'll  never  let  a  word  be  said 
against  you  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  years. 

Sergeant.  [Wiping  eyes  with  a  blue  handkerchief.]  I  will  tell 
it  at  the  meeting.  It  will  be  a  great  encouragement  to  them  to 
build  up  their  character.  I'll  tell  it  to  the  priest  and  he  taking 
the  chair 

Hyacinth.     Oh,  stop,  will  you 


Mr.  Quirke.  The  chair.  It's  in  the  chair  he,  himself, 
should  be.  It's  in  a  chair  we  will  put  him  now.  It's  to  chair 
him  through  the  streets  we  will.  Sure  he'll  be  an  example 
and   a  blessing   to   the  whole   of   the  town.      [Seizes  Halvey 


HYACINTH    HALVEY  137 

and  seats  him  in  chair.]  Now,  Sergeant,  give  a  hand.  Here, 
Fardy. 

[They  all  lift  the  chair  with  Halvey  in  it,  wildly  protesting. 
Mk.  Quirke.  Come  along  now  to  the  court-house.  Three 
cheers  for  Hyacinth  Halvey  !     Hip  !  hip  !  hoora ! 

[Cheers  heard  in  the  distance  as  the  curtain  drops. 


THE  GAZING  GLOBE 

BY 

EUGENE  PILLOT 


The  Gazing  Globe  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  ol  Eugene  Pillot. 
All  rights  are  retained  by  the  author.  This  play  is  protected  by  copy- 
right and  must  not  be  used  without  the  permission  of  and  payment  of 
royalty  to  Eugene  Pillot,  who  may  be  reached  through  The  47  Work- 
shop, Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 


EUGENE  PILLOT 

Eugene  Pillot,  one  of  the  well-known  contemporary  writers 
of  one-act  plays,  was  born  in  Houston,  Texas.  He  was  edu- 
cated in  the  New  York  School  of  Fine  and  Applied  Arts,  at  the 
University  of  Texas,  at  Cornell  University,  and  at  Harvard 
University.  While  at  Harvard,  he  participated  in  the  activities 
of  The  47  Workshop. 

Mr.  Pillot's  one-act  plaj's  are  always  characterized  by  ex- 
cellent and  well-sustained  technic.  Among  his  best-known 
one-act  plays  are  The  Gazing  Globe,  Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady, 
Telephone  Number  One  (a  prize  play).  Hunger,  and  My  Lady 
Dreams.  Mr.  Pillot's  plays  have  been  produced  frequently  in 
schools  and  Little  Theatres  of  America. 

The  Gazing  Globe  originally  appeared  in  The  Stratford  Jour- 
nal, and  was  first  produced  by  the  Boston  Community  Players, 
February  26,  1920,  with  the  following  cast:  Zama,  Rosalie  Man- 
ning; Ohano,  Beulah  Auerbach;  and  Nuo,  Eugene  Pillot. 
The  Gazing  Globe  has  unusually  sustained  tone  and  dramatic 
suspense. 


CHARACTERS 

Zama 

Ohano 
Nijo 


THE  GAZING  GLOBE* 

SCENE :  A  soft  cream-colored  room,  bare  walled  and  unfurnished 
except  for  dull-blue  grass  mats  on  the  floor  and  brilliant 
cushions.  In  the  centre  of  rear  wall  is  a  great  circular  window 
with  a  dais  before  it,  so  that  it  may  be  used  as  a  doorway.  A 
gathered  shade  of  soft  blue  silk  covers  the  opening  of  the  win- 
dow. 

PLACE:   An  island  in  a  southern  sea. 

TIME:   Not  so  long  ago. 

[The  curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage.    Zama,  an  old  ser- 
vant woman  dressed  in  dull  purples  and  grays,  hurries  in 
from  the  right.     She  stops  at  centre  stage  and  glances 
about  searchingly,  then  calls  in  a  weazen  voice. 
Zama.     Ohano — Ohano  !    Where  do  you  be,  child  ? 

[Listens,  looks  about,  sees  drawn  shade  at  the  rear,  and  sighs 
as  she  goes  to  it  and  starts  to  raise  it. 

[As  the  shade  rolls  out  of  sight  we  see  through  the  open  win- 
dow a  bit  of  quaint  cliff  garden  that  overlooks  a  sea  of 
green.  The  rocks  are  higher  on  the  left,  near  the  win- 
dow, where  a  purple-pink  vine  in  full  blossom  has  started 
to  climb.  At  the  right  the  rocks  slope  down  to  the  sea. 
At  centre,  stone  steps  lead  up  to  a  slender  stone  pedestal 
that  holds  a  gazing  globe,  now  a  brilliant  gold  in  the  late 
afternoon  sunlight.  Ohano,  with  hands  clasped  round 
the  globe,  is  gazing  at  it.  She  is  a  woman  of  the  early 
twenties,  beautiful  and  gowned  in  a  flowing  kimono-like 
robe  of  green  with  embroideries  of  white  and  blue. 

*  Copyright,  1919,  by  The  Stratford  Journal. 
143 


144  EUGENE    PILLOT 

Zama.  [In  a  chiding,  motherly  way.]  Ohano,  my  child,  you 
must  not  be  so  much  at  that  evil  ball !  How  many  times  be  I 
not  telling  you  it  is  an  enchanted  ball  ? 

Ohano.  Yes,  Zama,  I  hope  it  is  enchanted.  I've  tried  every 
other  means  to  gain  the  way  to  my  heart's  desire — and  they've 
all  failed  me.  The  story  these  islanders  have  woven  round  this 
gazing  globe  may  be  but  a  myth — but  if  it  shows  me  the  way  to 
my  freedom,  I  shall  not  have  looked  at  it  in  vain. 

Zama.  Be  you  forgetting,  child,  'tis  said  that  evil  ball  shows 
only  the  way  to  destruction  ! 

Ohano.  Yes,  these  island  people  will  create  any  myth,  go 
any  length,  to  keep  one  thinking,  living  in  their  narrow  way. 
You  are  destined  for  evil  if  you  try  to  follow  the  urge  of  your 
own  heart — oh,  yes,  I  know. 

Zama.  But  your  heart,  child,  should  only  be  wanting  the  love 
of  Nijo. 

Ohano.  Nijo — I  am  hoping  that  he  wull  be  big  enough  to 
help  me — but  my  lover  has  been  away  so  long 

Zama.  But  to-day  he  be  coming  back — I  came  to  tell  you  I 
think  I  saw  his  boat 

Ohano.     Nijo's  boat  ?     Where  ? 

Zama.     It  be  near  the  edge  of  the  island  just  where 

Ohano.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ? 

Zama.  I  came  to — but  I  be  forgetting  when  I  see  you  at  that 
evil  ball  again. 

Ohano.  [All  eagerness.]  Perhaps  we  can  see  him  land — 
from  here  on  the  rocks — come,  Zama,  I  hear  the  sound  of  voices 
down  near  the  sea — come!  [They  climb  to  the  highest  rock.] 
Look,  Zama,  the  boat  is  there  !  Already  there  in  the  green  water 
against  the  shore ! 

Zama.     It  do  seem  to  be  so.  [Peers  toward  right. 

Ohano.     And  there — is  Nijo  ! 

Zama.     Where,  where,  child  ? 

Ohano.     There — see,   he's   just   coming    ashore — oh,   Nijo! 


THE    GAZING    GLOBE  145 

And  look,  Zama,  look  what  the  people  crowdmg  round  him 
have  done — look  ! 

Zama.  What?  My  poor  eyes  be  yet  uncertain.  What  do 
they  be  doing  to  your  lover? 

Ohano.  They  have  put  upon  him  the  Robe  of  Flame — to 
greet  him  with  the  highest  honor  of  the  island. 

Zajvia.  So  they  be.  The  robe  they  say  the  gods  themselves 
did  wear  when  time  did  first  begin.  Nijo  must  come  back  a 
great  warrior  now — a  great  warrior ! 

Ohano.  Oh,  how  wonderful  to  return  from  the  wars  like 
that !  Zama,  I  want  to — I  must  go  out  into  the  world  and  do 
great  things  too,  like  Nijo. 

Zama.  Nijo  be  coming  back,  child.  That  do  be  enough. 
Look,  what  is  it  that  glitters  so  in  the  sun  ? 

Ohano.  Why,  they  are  giving  something  to  my  red  god — 
something  that's  long  as  a  serpent  moon — see,  he  holds  it  out 
in  admiration  before  him.    Just  what  can  it  be  ? 

Zama.  In  faith  I  do  believe  they  have  given  your  hero — a 
sword ! 

Ohano.  A  marvellous  sword — look,  its  jewels  flash  with  the 
shifting  lights,  warm  as  the  colored  rifts  of  sunset ! 

Zama.  Such  gems  do  be  a  tribute  to  his  greatness,  Ohano, 
they  do. 

Ohano.  How  gladly  would  I  have  the  way  I  seek  without 
such  tribute — how  willingly  ! 

Zama.  And  now  the  crowd  do  be  parting — he  leaves  the  boat 
and  he  looks  this  way,  Ohano — he  looks  ! 

Ohano.     Nijo,  my  red  wonder  of  the  world  ! 

Zama.     See,  he  mounts  his  steed — he  waves  to  you ! 

Ohano.     Nijo !    Nijo ! 

Zama.  And  now  he  rides  oflF  to  come  to  you  here.  It  is  better 
we  be  waiting  inside  for  him — when  he  brings  back  his  love  to 
his  promised  bride. 

Ohano.     [As  they  enter  room.]    Ah,  Zama,  he  must  bring  me 


146  EUGENE    PILLOT 

more  than  love  this  time — much  more.  Yes,  your  little  Ohano 
must  have  more  in  her  life  to-day  than  just  love — and  Nijo  must 
show  her  the  way  to  that  realm  where  she  may  stretch  her  soul 
and  live! 

Zama.  The  love  of  so  great  a  man  do  be  enough  for  any 
woman,  child. 

Ohano.     Oh,  no — oh,  no 

Zama.  But  it  do  be;  and  evil  will  fall,  I  know,  if  you  do  be 
asking  more  than  love  ! 

Ohano.  But  I  tell  you,  Nijo's  love  is  not  enough.  I  must 
have  a  bigger,  greater  thing  ! 

Zajvia.     The  gods  do  know  of  none  that  be  more  than  love. 

Ohano.  But  there  must  be,  else  why  would  I  feel  the  rush  of 
its  pulse  within  my  veins  ?  Why  would  my  whole  being  cry  out 
for  action  and  the  glory  of  doing  big  things  in  the  lands  across 
the  sea?  Why,  tell  me  why,  I  would  feel  those  things  if  they 
were  not  so  ? 

Zama.  It  be  not  for  me  to  say,  child;  but  I  do  be  thinking  you 
moon  at  that  evil  ball  too  much.  It  do  make  your  sight  grow 
red  !     It  be  not  wise  to  know  an  enchanted  thing  so  well. 

Ohano.  If  that  gazing  globe  in  the  garden  would  only  show 
me  the  way  to  my  heart's  desire,  how  gladly  would  I  be  the  vic- 
tim of  its  enchantment ! 

Zama.  Nijo's  kiss  do  be  your  enchantment,  child.  One  touch 
of  his  lips  and  you  do  be  forgetting  all  else. 

Ohano.  If  Nijo's  kiss  can  make  me  forget  this  fever  within 
me,  I  want  his  kiss  as  I  shall  never  want  anything  else  in  all  of 
this  life.     I  want  it ! ! 

[Approaching  horse's  hoofs  are  heard  from  off  right. 

Zama.     Listen — the  horse  !     Ohano,  your  lover  do  be  coming  ! 

Ohano.  [Running  to  the  window.]  Already .''  He  must  have 
taken  the  short  way  through  the  cliffs. 

Zama.  Ah,  child,  do  you  not  be  excited  as  a  bird  in  a  storm- 
wind's  blow  ? 


THE    GAZING    GLOBE  147 

Ohano.     [Superbly,  as  she  leans  against  window.]    Yes,  I  await 
my  hero ! 

Zama.     He's  stopped,  child !     He  do  be  here !     At  last  he 
comes  back  to  my  little  Ohano  ! 

Ohano.     My  hope  comes !     [With  outstretched  arms  to  right.] 

MyNijo!!    Oh ! 

[She  had  impulsively  started  to  greet  Nuo,  but  suddenly 
shrinks  back. 
Zama.     ^\Tiat  do  be  wrong — what? 

Ohano.  He's  so  different — so  changed — oh,  here  he  is — ssh ! 
[Nuo  appears  at  the  window,  where  he  pauses  for  a  moment. 
He  is  a  tall,  brunette  man,  scarcely  thirty — a  handsome, 
well-knit  southern  island  type,  wearing  a  flowing  robe  of 
flame,  with  a  flaring  collar  of  old-gold  brocade.  A  peaked 
hat  completes  the  costume.  A  curved  sword,  with  a  hilt 
thickly  studded  vnth  large  jewels  and  incased  in  gold,  hangs 
at  his  belt.  He  seems  worldly  weary  and  sad  as  he  ad- 
vances into  the  room. 
Ohano.    Nijo ! 

Nuo.     [Unimpassioned.]     Ohano. 
Ohano.     [Eagerly.]     You  have  come  back ! 
Nuo.     Yes — and  the  season  of  the  heat  has  been  gracious  to 
your  health,  I  hope  ? 

Ohano.     Yes — and  yours,  Nijo  ? 
Nuo.     The  same. 

Ohano.     Oh,  I  am  glad — glad  as  tree-blossoms  for  the  kiss  of 
spring.     And  Zama  here  shares  my  welcome,  don't  you  ? 
Nuo.     [Recognizing  Zama.]     Ah,  Zama. 

Zama.     [Boiving  before  him.]     The  gods  do  be  kind  to  bring 
back  a  hero  to  us. 
Nuo.     Thank  you. 

Za]ma.     Now  I  do  be  going  for  refreshments  for  your  weari- 
ness; great  it  must  be  after  so  long  a  voyage.  [Exits  right. 


148  EUGENE    PILLOT 

Ohano.     Shall  we  not  sit  here  ? 

Nijo.     As  you  will. 

[Ohano  and  Nuo  sit  upon  mats  near  the  window^  'partly 
facing  each  other. 

Ohano.     They — they  gave  you  a  sword  at  the  boat. 

Nuo.     [Wearily.]     Oh,  yes. 

Ohano.     Even  from  up  here  we  could  see  its  jewels  flash. 

Nuo.     [Without  interest.]     Yes,  it  is  cunningly  conceived. 

Ohano.     How  wonderful  it  must  be.     Perhaps — I  may  see  it.? 

Nuo.     [Still  wearily.]     If  you  so  desire. 

[Uiibuckles  sword  and  holds  it  before  himself  for  her  to 
examine.  She  leans  over  it  admiringly,  touching  the 
jeivels  as  she  speaks  of  them. 

Ohano.  Magnificent !  Rubies  and  emeralds  and  sapphires  ! 
And  here  are  moonstones  and  diamonds.     How  you  must  prize  it. 

Nuo.     [Wearily.]     Of  course,  one  must. 

Ohano.  And  the  very  people  who  tried  to  stop  you  from 
going  across  the  sea  to  win  your  glory  have  given  it  to  you. 

Nuo.     That  is  the  way  of  the  world. 

Ohano.     Show  me  the  way  to  glory,  Nijo. 

Nuo.     And  why.'* 

Ohano.     I  would  travel  it  too. 

Nuo.     You — a  simple  island  maiden  ? 

Ohano.     I'm  not  simple.     I've  grown  beyond  the  people  here. 

Nuo.     But  there  is  glory  in  the  work  women  must  do  at  home. 

Ohano.  And  I  have  done  my  share  of  it.  I  want  bigger 
work  now — out  in  the  world. 

Nuo.     But  the  simple  tasks  must  be  done. 

Ohano.     I  am  sick  unto  death  of  doing  them ! 

Nuo.  But  you  can't  go  into  the  battles  of  the  world.  You 
are  an  island  woman. 

Ohano.  This  last  war  has  made  all  women  free.  If  the  other 
island  women  cling  to  the  everlasting  tradition  that  woman 
should  not  go  beyond  her  native  hearth,  let  them  cling.     I  shall 


THE    GAZING    GLOBE  149 

reach  the  summit  of  things  and  know  the  glory  of  doing  big 
things  in  the  world  ! 

NiJO.  But  you — sheltered,  protected  all  your  life — how  can 
you  do  it? 

Ohano.  That's  what  troubles  me.  But  you  were  fettered  by 
this  island  life  and  you  broke  through  the  bars  of  convention. 
How  did  you  do  it? 

NiJO.  [Sadly.]  Ohano,  I  would  not  spoil  your  life  by  telling 
you. 

Ohano.  Spoil  it?  What  do  you  think  is  happening  to  it 
now?  Oh,  Nijo,  can't  you  understand  I'm  stagnating — dying 
in  this  commonplace  island  life. 

Nijo.  I  thought  that  about  myself,  too,  when  I  started  my 
climb  to  glory;  but  scarcely  a  moon  had  passed  before  I  realized 
the  loneliness  of  great  heights. 

Ohano.  [Tigerishly.]  Are  you  trying  to  turn  me  from  my 
wish — to  have  all  the  island's  glory  for  yourself  ? 

Nijo.  No,  but  only  the  valley  people  enjoy  the  sublimity  of 
a  mountain. 

Ohano.     [Scornfully.]    Ha ! 

Nijo.  Those  who  reach  the  top  have  lost  their  perspective. 
All  they  see  are  the  lonely  tops  of  other  mountains. 

Ohano.     [Sublimely.]     But  they've  had  the  joy  of  the  climb  ! 

Nijo.     And  worth  what — no  more  than  the  mist  of  the  sea. 

Ohano.  Do  you  think  that  satisfies  me  ?  I  want  to  find  out 
for  myself!  I  only  want  you  to  tell  me  the  way  to  use  this 
spirit  that  boils  within  my  blood,  thirsts  for  action  ! 

Nijo.     That  I  never  will. 

Ohano.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I've  even  implored  the  sun 
and  the  moon !  [Looks  toward  sea.]  Now  I  must  listen  to  my 
dreams — my  dreams  that  cry  and  cry:  "Look  in  the  gazing 
globe !  Look  in  the  gazing  globe  !  It  will  show  you  the  way  !" 
And  if  it  ever  does,  I'll  take  that  path  no  matter  where  it  leads. 

Nijo.     My  journey  only  made  me  want  to  come  back  to  the 


150  EUGENE    PILLOT 

haven  of  your  love,  Ohano.  The  amber  cup  of  glory  left  me 
athirst  to  be  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  your  boundless  love  and 
warmed  with  the  glow  of  your  heart. 

OiiANO.  [Surprised.]  Your  journey  has  really  led  you  back 
to  me  ? 

NiJO.  [Sadly.]  You're  my  only  hope.  I've  been  as  mad 
for  you  as  the  sea  for  the  moonlight. 

Ohano.  [Disturbed.]  But  you  had  fire  and  impulse  when 
you  went  away;  and  now — well,  you  do  still  yearn  for  me? 

NiJO.  [Quietly,  without  passion.]  The  hope  for  your  love  has 
been  the  light  of  my  brain,  changing  from  life  to  dream,  from 
earth  to  star. 

Ohano.  My  thirst  for  glory  has  been  that  way;  but  Zama 
tells  me  it  is  as  nothing  in  the  kiss  of  love.  If  love  has  that 
power,  I  am  willing  to  forget  all  else.     Kiss  me,  Nijo ! 

NiJO.  At  last  my  lips  will  press  yours,  as  the  sun  flames  to 
an  immortal  moment  when  it  meets  the  sky. 

[Kneeling  opposite  each  other,  their  lips  meet.  Ohano  in- 
stantly gives  a  piercing  scream  and  recoils  from  him. 
Nijo  sinks  into  a  heap. 

Ohano.  [Rising  and  turning  toward  the  sea,  weeping.]  Oh,  oh, 
oh! 

Zama.  [Rushing  in  from  right.]  What  is  it.?  What  is  it, 
Ohano  ? 

Ohano.     [Still  weeping.]     Oh — ooh. 

Zama.     What  do  it  be,  my  little  Ohano  ? 

Ohano.     [Turning.]    His  kiss — Nijo's  kiss ! 

Zama.    Yes  ? 

Ohano.     Cold  as  white  marble — cold  I 

Zama.     Cold  as  white  marble  ? 

Ohano.     Oh,  Nijo,  why  do  you  kiss  me  like  a  thing  of  stone  ? 

Nijo.  [As  he  looks  up,  pitifully.]  Into  that  kiss  I  tried  to  put 
all  the  love  I've  thought  these  many  years. 

Ohano.     The  love  you've  thought? 


THE    GAZING    GLOBE  151 

NiJO.     [Despondently.]     Yes,  I've  only  thought  it — thought  it ! 

Ohano.     But  your  heart ? 

NiJO.  [Rising.]  My  heart  feels  no  more !  Only  my  head 
thinks. 

Zama.     You  love  no  more  ? 

NiJO.  Only  with  my  head,  it  seems.  I  see  things,  know- 
things,  understand  things;  but  I  no  longer  feel  anything.  And 
my  thirst  for  glory  has  done  it  all — killed  my  love  of  life  and 
turned  my  very  kiss  to  stone.  Oh,  glory,  why  do  men  give  the 
essence  of  their  lives  to  you — you  who  last  no  longer  than  the 
glow  of  gold  above  the  place  of  sunset ! 

Ohano.  [Swperhly.]  Because  glory  gives  you  the  world — 
everything ! 

NiJO.  It  takes  everything  away — strips  you — and  leaves  you 
nothing  to  believe.  Oh,  I  could  have  become  a  common  soldier 
here,  marching  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  island  men  going 
out  to  war — but  no — I  must  be  a  great  warrior,  a  hero  in  position. 
Had  I  knov.-n  then  what  I  know  now,  how  gladly  would  I  have 
gone  as  one  of  the  thousands  who  are  known  as — just  soldiers. 
They  are  the  ones  who  know  the  tlu-ob  of  life  and  love ! 

Ohano.  You  bring  back  such  a  message  to  me?  You  who 
have  climbed  and  climbed  to  heights  till  I  have  believed  you  to 
be  as  constant  in  your  quest  as  the  light  that  shines  upon  the 
gazing  globe  .^ 

NiJO.     I— alight.? 

Ohano.  Whj'-  not.^  I've  always  likened  your  feet  unto  the 
disks  of  two  luminaries,  lighting  the  way  for  all  the  world  to 
follow.  [Looks  at  gazing  globe,  which  is  noio  a  hall  of  gold  against 
the  black  sea  and  sky.]  And  nov,^  you  tell  me  I  vras  wrong.  Per- 
haps the  light  upon  the  gazing  globe  itself  is  the  only  one  to  fol- 
low. 

NiJO.  I — a  light  ?  Why,  Ohano,  if  I'm  anything,  I'm  a  gaz- 
ing globe ! 

Ohano.     What  do  you  mean — you  a  gazing  globe .? 


152  EUGENE    PILLOT 

NiJO.  That  without  I'm  all  fair,  all  wonderful — but  within 
I'm  empty  as  a  gazing  globe. 

Ohano.  [Scornfully.]  But  a  gazing  globe  shows  men  the  way 
to  their  heart's  desire. 

NiJO.     It  reflects  to  men  what  they  see  into  it.     So  does  glory. 

Ohano.     I  can't  believe  that — now. 

NiJO.  Behold  what  it  has  done  to  me !  Already  as  a  child  I 
gazed  at  that  globe,  longing  to  grasp  the  glory  of  which  it  was  a 
symbol.  It  filled  me  with  a  red  madness,  surged  with  an  un- 
bearable music,  giving  me  a  riotous  pain  !  Oh,  it  made  ma  drunk 
for  the  wine  of  glory  ! 

Ohano.  I  know !  I  know !  Now  you  talk  as  the  man  I 
thought  you  were. 

NiJO.     I'm  not  a  man.     I'm  dead. 

Ohano.  But  you  have  known  the  glory  of  life.  Shall  I  never 
know  the  way  to  it  ?  [Appealingly,  to  the  globe.]  The  way — the 
way  is  what  I  seek  ! 

Zama.  Look  not  so  upon  the  evil  ball,  child.  It  do  be  en- 
chanted for  one  thousand  years  !  [Ohano  moves  nearer  the  globe.] 
Go  not  so  near,  child  !     Evil  will  fall — and  you  will  be  enslaved  ! 

Ohano.     WTiat  care  I,  if  it  shows  me  the  way  ? 

[Hands  outstretched  to  the  globe. 

Zama.  [Appealingly  to  Nuo.]  Sir,  I  pray  you  do  be  stopping 
her.  She  do  be  always  gazing  at  that  golden  ball ;  and  slowly  it 
do  be  drawing  her  within  its  enchanted  grasp.  And  it  do  be  an 
enchanted  ball ! 

Nuo.  Perhaps  there's  more  to  its  enchantment  than  I 
thought.  It  claimed  me  for  a  victim — and  now  it's  freezing  her 
life's  warmth  to  the  falseness  of  Orient  pearl. 

Ohano.  [Murmuring  to  the  globe.]  The  way — the  way?  I 
must  have  the  way  ! 

Nuo.  [Swiftly  drawing  his  sword.]  I  will  not  show  you — but 
I'll  save  you  !  [Starts  toward  the  gazing  globe. 

Zama.     [Barring  his  path.]     Nijo,  sir,  what  do  you  be  doing  ? 


THE    GAZING    GLOBE  153 

NiJO.     [With  a  flourish  of  his  sword.]     I  kill  the  thing  that 
freezes  another  heart ! 

Zama.     That  do  mean  ruin  !     It  be  an  enchanted  ball ! 
NiJO.     [Brushing  past  Zama.]     It  will  enchant  no  longer ! ! 
Ohano.     No  !    No,  Nijo ! 
NiJO.     [Running  up  pedestal  steps.]     Yes  ! ! 

[With  a  might!/  blow  he  strikes  the  gazing  globe  with  his 

sword.     Frightened,  Ohano  shrinks  to  one  side,  facing 

right,  as  a  thunder-like  crash  follows  the  blow,  and  pieces 

of  the  globe  tumble  to  the  ground — all  but  one  piece  that 

remains  upon  the  pedestal.     Then  from  a  moon  off  stage 

right  shines  a  straight  golden  path  across  the  sea  to  the  bit 

of  gazing  globe  on  the  pedestal. 

Ohano.     [Triumphantly.]     The  moon —    The  way !     At  last 

the  way  !     From  the  gazing  globe — the  golden  path  to  the  moon 

of  glory.     Now  I  am  free ! 

[Rushes  wildly  down  the  moonlight  path  to  the  sea. 
Zama.     Stop  her ! 

Nijo.     No,  it  is  better  to  let  her  go. 

Zama.     But  the  path  do  lead  into  the  sea.     It  is  death  !     Stop 
her  ! !  [Starts  forward. 

Nijo.     [Restraining  Zama.]     No  !    In  death  her  soul  has  found 
the  only  way ! 

CURTAIN 


THE  BOOR 

BY 

ANTON  TCHEKOV 


The  Boor  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Barrett  H.  Clark  and 
of  Samuel  French,  publisher.  New  York  City.  All  rights  reserved.  For 
permission  to  perform,  address  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


ANTON  TCHEKOV 

Anton  Tchekov,  considered  the  foremost  of  contemporary 
Russian  dramatists,  was  born  in  1860  at  Taganrog,  Russia.  In 
1880  he  was  graduated  from  the  Medical  School  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Moscow.  Ill  health  soon  compelled  him  to  abandon  his 
practice  of  medicine,  and  in  1887  he  sought  the  south.  In  1904, 
the  year  of  the  successful  appearance  of  his  Cherry  Orchard,  he 
died  in  a  village  of  the  Black  Forest  in  Germany. 

As  a  dramatist,  Tchekov  has  with  deliberate  intent  cast  off 
much  of  the  conventionalities  of  dramatic  technic.  In  his 
longer  plays  especially,  like  The  Sea  Gull,  Uncle  Vanya,  and 
Cherry  Orchard,  he  somewhat  avoids  obvious  struggles,  time- 
worn  commonplaces,  well-prepared  climaxes,  and  seeks  rather 
to  spread  out  a  panoramic  canvas  for  our  contemplation.  His 
chief  aim  is  to  show  us  humanity  as  he  sees  it.  It  is  his  interest 
in  humanity  that  gives  him  so  high  rank  as  a  dramatist. 

His  one-act  plays,  a  form  of  drama  unusually  apt  for  certain 
intimate  aspects  of  Russian  peasant  life,  are  more  regular  in 
their  technic  than  his  longer  plays.  Among  the  five  or  six 
shorter  plays  that  Tchekov  wrote.  The  Boor  and  A  Marriage  Pro- 
posal are  his  best.  In  these  plays  he  shows  the  lighter  side  of 
Russian  country  life,  infusing  some  of  the  spirit  of  the  great 
Gogol  into  his  broad  and  somewhat  farcical  character  portrayals. 
With  rare  good  grace,  in  these  plays  he  appears  to  be  asking  us 
to  throw  aside  our  restraint  and  laugh  with  him  at  the  stupidity 
and  naivete,  as  well  as  good-heartedness.  of  the  Russian  people 
he  knew  so  well. 

The  Boor  is  a  remarkably  well-constructed  one-act  play,  and 
is  probably  the  finest  one-act  play  of  the  Russian  school  of 
drama. 


PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

Helena  Ivanovna  Popov,  a  young  widow,  mistress  of  a  country 

estite 
Grigoiji  Stepanovitch  Smirnov,  proprietor  of  a  country  estate 
LuKA.  servant  of  Mrs.  Popov 

A  gardener.     A  coachman.     Several  workmen 


THE  BOOR 

TIME:  The  'present 

SCENE :  A  well-furnished  reception-room  in  Mrs.  Popov's  home, 
Mrs,  Popov  is  discovered  in  deep  mourning,  sitting  upon  a 
sofa,  gazing  steadfastly  at  a  photograph.     Luka  is  also  present. 

LuKA.  It  isn't  right,  ma'am.  You're  wearing  yourself  out ! 
The  maid  and  the  cook  have  gone  looking  for  berries;  everything 
that  breathes  is  enjoying  life;  even  the  cat  knows  how  to  be 
happy — slips  about  the  courtyard  and  catches  birds — but  you 
hide  yourself  here  in  the  house  as  though  you  were  in  a  cloister. 
Yes,  truly,  by  actual  reckoning  you  haven't  left  this  house  for  a 
whole  year. 

Mrs.  Popov.  And  I  shall  never  leave  it — why  should  I? 
My  life  is  over.  He  lies  in  his  grave,  and  I  have  buried  myself 
within  these  four  walls.     We  are  both  dead. 

Luka.  There  you  are  again !  It's  too  awful  to  listen  to,  so 
it  is!  Nikolai  Michailovitch  is  dead;  it  was  the  will  of  the 
Lord,  and  the  Lord  has  given  him  eternal  peace.  You  have 
grieved  over  it  and  that  ought  to  be  enough.  Now  it's  time  to 
stop.  One  can't  weep  and  wear  mourning  forever !  My  wife 
died  a  few  years  ago.  I  grieved  for  her.  I  wept  a  whole  month 
— and  then  it  was  over.  Must  one  be  forever  singing  lamenta- 
tions ?  That  would  be  more  than  your  husband  was  worth ! 
[He  sighs.]  You  have  forgotten  all  your  neighbors.  You  don't 
go  out  and  you  receive  no  one.  We  live — you'll  pardon  me — 
like  the  spiders,  and  the  good  light  of  day  we  never  see.  All  the 
livery  is  eaten  by  the  mice — as  though  there  weren't  any  more 
nice  people  in  the  world  !     But  the  whole  neighborhood  is  full  of 

159 


160  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

gentlefolk.  The  regiment  is  stationed  in  Riblov — officers — sim- 
ply beautiful !  One  can't  see  enough  of  them  !  Every  Friday  e 
ball,  and  military  music  every  day.  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  ma'am, 
young  and  pretty  as  you  are,  if  you'd  only  let  your  spirits  live — ! 
Beauty  can't  last  forever.  When  ten  short  years  are  over,  you'll 
be  glad  enough  to  go  out  a  bit  and  meet  the  officers — and  then 
it'll  be  too  late. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Resolutely.]  Please  don't  speak  of  these 
things  again.  You  know  very  well  that  since  the  death  of  Niko- 
lai Michailovitch  my  life  is  absolutely  nothing  to  me.  You  think 
I  live,  but  it  only  seems  so.  Do  you  understand  ?  Oh,  that  his 
departed  soul  may  see  how  I  love  him !  I  know,  it's  no  secret 
to  you;  he  was  often  unjust  toward  me,  cruel,  and — he  wasn't 
faithful,  but  I  shall  be  faithful  to  the  grave  and  prove  to  him 
how  I  can  love.  There,  in  the  Beyond,  he'll  find  me  the  same 
as  I  was  until  his  death. 

LuKA.  What  is  the  use  of  all  these  words,  when  you'd  so 
much  rather  go  walking  in  the  garden  or  order  Tobby  or  Welikan 
harnessed  to  the  trap,  and  visit  the  neighbors  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     [Weeping.]     Oh ! 

LuKA.  Madam,  dear  nadam,  what  is  it?  In  Heaven's 
name! 

Mrs.  Popov.  He  loved  Tobby  so!  He  always  drove  him 
to  the  Kortschagins  or  the  Ylassovs.  What  a  wonderful  horse- 
man he  was !  How  fine  he  looked  when  he  pulled  at  the  reins 
with  all  his  might !  Tobby,  Tobby — give  him  an  extra  measure 
of  oats  to-day ! 

LuKA.    Yes,  ma'am. 
[A  bell  rings  loudly. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Shiidders.]  What's  that.?  I  am  at  home  to 
no  one. 

LuKA.     Yes,  ma'am.  [He  goes  out,  centre. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Gazing  at  ike  photograph.]  You  shall  see,  Nik- 
olai, how  I  can  love  and  forgive  !     My  love  will  die  only  with  me 


THE    BOOR  161 

— when  my  poor  heart  stops  beating.  [She  smiles  through  her 
tears.]  And  aren't  you  ashamed?  I  have  been  a  good,  true 
wife;  I  have  imprisoned  myself  and  I  shall  remain  true  until 
death,  and  you — you — you're  not  ashamed  of  yourself,  my  dear 

monster !     You  quarrelled  with  me,  left  me  alone  for  weeks 

[LuKA  enters  in  great  excitement. 

LuKA.  Oh,  ma'am,  some  one  is  asking  for  you,  insists  on  see- 
ing you 

Mrs.  Popov.  You  told  him  that  since  my  husband's  death 
I  receive  no  one.'' 

LuKA.  I  said  so,  but  he  won't  listen;  he  says  it  is  a  pressing 
matter. 

Mrs.  Popov.     I  receive  no  one  ! 

LuKA.  I  told  him  that,  but  he's  a  wild  man;  he  swore  and 
pushed  himself  into  the  room;  he's  in  the  dining-room  now. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Excitedly.]  Good.  Show  him  in.  The  im- 
pudent  ! 

[LuKA  goes  out,  centre. 

Mrs.  Popov.  What  a  bore  people  are!  What  can  they 
want  with  me  ?  Why  do  they  disturb  my  peace  .'*  [She  sighs.] 
Yes,  it  is  clear  I  must  enter  a  convent.  [Meditatively.]  Yes,  a 
convent. 

[Smirnov  enters,  followed  by  Luka. 

Smirnov.  [To  Luka.]  Fool,  you  make  too  much  noise! 
You're  an  ass  !  [Discovering  Mrs.  Popov — politely.]  Madam,  I 
have  the  honor  to  introduce  myself:  Lieutenant  in  the  Artil- 
lery, retired,  country  gentleman,  Grigori  Stepanovitch  Smirnov  ! 
I'm  compelled  to  bother  you  about  an  exceedingly  important 
matter. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Without  offering  her  hand.]  What  is  it  you 
wish  ? 

Smirnov.  Your  deceased  husband,  with  whom  I  had  the 
honor  to  be  acquainted,  left  me  two  notes  amounting  to  about 
twelve  hundred  roubles.     Inasmuch  as  I  have  to  pay  the  interest 


162  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

to-morrow  on  a  loan  from  the  Agrarian  Bank,  I  should  like  to 
request,  madam,  that  you  pay  me  the  money  to-day. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Twelve  hundred — and  for  what  was  my  hus- 
band indebted  to  you  ? 

Smirnov.     He  bought  oats  from  me. 

Mrs.  Popov.     [With  a  sigh,  to  Luka.]     Don't  forget  to  give 
Tobby  an  extra  measure  of  oats. 
[Luka  goes  out. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [To  Smirnov.]  If  Nikolai  Michailovitch  is  in- 
debted to  you,  I  shall,  of  course,  pay  you,  but  I  am  sorry,  I 
havea't  the  money  to-day.  To-morrow  my  manager  will  return 
from  the  city  and  I  shall  notify  him  to  pay  you  what  is  due  you, 
but  until  then  I  cannot  satisfy  your  request.  Furthermore,  to- 
day it  is  just  seven  months  since  the  death  of  my  husband,  and 
I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  discuss  money  matters. 

Smirnov.  And  I  am  in  the  mood  to  fly  up  the  chimney  with 
my  feet  in  the  air  if  I  can't  lay  hands  on  that  interest  to-mor- 
row.    They'll  seize  my  estate  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  Day  after  to-morrow  you  will  receive  the 
money. 

Smirnov.  I  don't  need  the  money  day  after  to-morrow;  I 
need  it  to-day. 

Mrs.  Popov.     I'm  sorry  I  can't  pay  you  to-day. 

Smirnov.     And  I  can't  wait  until  day  after  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  Popov.     But  what  can  I  do  if  I  haven't  it.? 

Smirnov.     So  you  can't  pay  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     I  cannot. 

Smirnov.     Hm  !     Is  that  your  last  word  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     My  last. 

Smirnov.     Absolutely  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     Absolutely. 

Smirnov.  Thank  you.  [He  shrugs  his  shoulders.]  And  they 
expect  me  to  stand  for  all  that.  The  toll-gatherer  just  now  met 
me    in  the  road  and  asked  me  why  I  was  always  worrying. 


THE    BOOR  163 

Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  shouldn't  I  worry?  I  need  money,  I 
feel  the  knife  at  my  throat.  Yesterday  morning  I  left  my  house 
in  the  early  dawn  and  called  on  all  my  debtors.  If  even  one  of 
them  had  paid  his  debt !  I  worked  the  skin  off  my  fingers  !  The 
devil  knows  in  what  sort  of  Jew-inn  I  slept;  in  a  room  with  a 
barrel  of  brandy !  And  now  at  last  I  come  here,  seventy  versts 
from  home,  hope  for  a  little  money,  and  all  you  give  me  is  moods  ! 
Why  shouldn't  I  worry  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.  I  thought  I  made  it  plain  to  you  that  my  man- 
ager will  return  from  town,  and  then  you  will  get  your  money. 

Smirnov.  I  did  not  come  to  see  the  manager;  I  came  to  see 
you.  What  the  devil — pardon  the  language — do  I  care  for  your 
manager  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.  Really,  sir,  I  am  not  used  to  such  language  or 
such  manners.     I  shan't  listen  to  you  any  further. 

[She  goes  out,  left. 

Smirnov.  What  can  one  say  to  that  ?  Moods !  Seven 
months  since  her  husband  died !  Do  I  have  to  pay  the  interest 
or  not?  I  repeat  the  question,  have  I  to  pay  the  interest  or 
not?  The  husband  is  dead  and  all  that;  the  manager  is — the 
devil  with  him  ! — travelling  somewhere.  Now,  tell  me,  what  am 
I  to  do  ?  Shall  I  run  away  from  my  creditors  in  a  balloon  ?  Or 
knock  my  head  against  a  stone  wall  ?  If  I  call  on  Grusdev  he 
chooses  to  be  "not  at  home,"  Iroschevitch  has  simply  hidden 
himself,  I  have  quarrelled  with  Kurzin  and  came  near  throwing 
him  out  of  the  window,  Masutov  is  ill  and  this  woman  has — 
fcioods !  Not  one  of  them  will  pay  up !  And  all  because  I've 
spoiled  them,  because  I'm  an  old  whiner,  dish-rag !  I'm  too 
tender-hearted  with  them.  But  wait !  I  allow  nobody  to  play 
tricks  with  me,  the  devil  with  'em  all !  I'll  stay  here  and  not 
budge  until  she  pays !  Brr !  How  angry  I  am,  how  terribly 
angry  I  am !  Every  tendon  is  trembling  with  anger,  and  I  can 
hardly  breathe  !  I'm  even  growing  ill !  [He  calls  out.]  Servant ! 
[LuKA  enters. 


164  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

LuKA.     What  is  it  you  wish? 

Smirnov.  Bring  me  Kvas  or  water  !  [Luka  goes  out.]  Well, 
what  can  we  do  ?  She  hasn't  it  on  hand  ?  What  sort  of  logic  is 
that?  A  fellow  stands  with  the  knife  at  his  throat,  he  needs 
money,  he  is  on  the  point  of  hanging  himself,  and  she  won't  pay 
because  she  isn't  in  the  mood  to  discuss  money  matters.  Wo- 
man's logic !  That's  why  I  never  liked  to  talk  to  women,  and 
why  I  dislike  doing  it  now.  I  would  rather  sit  on  a  powder  barrel 
than  talk  with  a  woman.  Brr ! — I'm  getting  cold  as  ice;  this 
affair  has  made  me  so  angry.  I  need  only  to  see  such  a  romantic 
creature  from  a  distance  to  get  so  angry  that  I  have  cramps  in 
the  calves  !  It's  enough  to  make  one  yell  for  help  ! 
[Enter  Luka. 

Luka.     [Hands  him  water.]     Madam  is  iU  and  is  not  receiving. 

Smirnov.  March  !  [Luka  goes  out.]  Ill  and  isn't  receiving  ! 
All  right,  it  isn't  necessary.  I  won't  receive,  either!  I'll  sit 
here  and  stay  until  you  bring  that  money.  If  you're  ill  a  week, 
I'll  sit  here  a  week.  If  you're  ill  a  year,  I'll  sit  here  a  year.  As 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  I'll  get  the  money.  You  don't  disturb  me 
with  your  mourning — or  with  your  dimples.  We  know  these 
dimples !  [lie  calls  out  the  window.]  Simon,  unharness !  We 
aren't  going  to  leave  right  away.  I  am  going  to  stay  here.  Tell 
them  in  the  stable  to  give  the  horses  some  oats.  The  left  horse 
has  twisted  the  bridle  again.  [Imitating  him.]  Stop  !  I'll  show 
you  how.  Stop !  [Leaves  window.]  It's  awful.  Unbearable 
heat,  no  money,  didn't  sleep  last  night  and  now — mourning- 
dresses  with  moods.  My  head  aches;  perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
a  drink.     Ye-s,  I  must  have  a  drinl^.     [Calling.]     Servant ! 

Luka.     What  do  you  wish  ? 

Smirnov.  Something  to  drink !  [Luka  goes  out.  SaiiRNOV 
sits  doicn  and  looks  at  his  clothes.]  Ugh,  a  fine  figure !  No  use 
denying  that.  Dust,  dirty  boots,  unwashed,  uncombed,  straw 
on  my  vest — the  lady  probably  took  me  for  a  highwayman.  [He 
yawns.]     It  was  a  little  impolite  to  come  into  a  receptioti-room 


THE    BOOR  165 

with  such  clothes.  Oh,  well,  no  harm  done.  I'm  not  here  as  a 
guest.  I'm  a  creditor.  And  there  is  no  special  costume  for 
creditors. 

LuKA.     [Entering  with  glass.]     You  take  great  liberty,  sir. 

Smirnov.     [Angrily.]     What  ? 

LuKA.     I — I — I  just 

Smirnov.     Whom  are  you  talking  to  ?     Keep  quiet. 

LuKA.     [Angrily.]     Nice  mess  !     This  fellow  won't  leave  ! 

[He  goes  out. 

SivnRNOV.     Lord,  how  angry  I  am !     Angry  enough  to  throw 
mud  at  the  whole  world  !     I  even  feel  ill !     Servant ! 
[Mrs.  Popov  comes  in  with  downcast  eyes. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Sir,  in  my  solitude  I  have  become  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  human  voice  and  I  cannot  stand  the  sound  of  loud 
talking.     I  beg  you,  please  to  cease  disturbing  my  rest. 

Smirnov.     Pay  me  my  money  and  I'll  leave. 

Mrs.  Popov.  I  told  you  once,  plainly,  in  your  native  tongue, 
that  I  haven't  the  money  at  hand;  wait  until  day  after  to- 
morrow. 

Smirnov.  And  I  also  had  the  honor  of  informing  you  in  your 
native  tongue  that  I  need  the  money,  not  day  after  to-morrow, 
but  to-day.  If  you  don't  pay  me  to-day  I  shall  have  to  hang 
myself  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  Popov.     But  what  can  I  do  if  I  haven't  the  money  ? 

Smirnov.  So  you  are  not  going  to  pay  immediately  ?  You're 
not? 

IVIrs.  Popov.     I  cannot. 

Smirnov.  Then  I'll  sit  here  until  I  get  the  money.  [He  sits 
iown.]  You  will  pay  day  after  to-morrow  ?  Excellent !  Here  I 
stay  until  day  after  to-morrow.  [Jumps  up.]  I  ask  you,  do  I 
have  to  pay  that  interest  to-morrow  or  not.^^  Or  do  you  think 
I'm  joking  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.  Sir,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  scream !  This  is  not 
a  stable. 


166  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

Smirnov.  I'm  not  talking  about  stables,  I'm  asking  you 
whether  I  have  to  pay  that  interest  to-morrow  or  not? 

Mrs.  Popov.     You  have  no  idea  how  to  treat  a  lady. 

Smirnov.     Oh,  yes,  I  have. 

Mrs.  Popov.  No,  you  have  not.  You  are  an  ill-bred,  vul- 
gar person !     Respectable  people  don't  speak  so  to  ladies. 

Smirnov.  How  remarkable  !  How  do  you  want  one  to  speak 
to  you  ?  In  French,  perhaps  !  Madame,  je  vous  prie  !  Pardon 
me  for  having  disturbed  you.  What  beautiful  weather  we  are 
having  to-day !    And  how  this  mourning  becomes  you  ! 

[He  makes  a  low  bow  with  viock  ceremony. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Not  at  all  funny !    I  think  it  vulgar ! 

Smirnov.  [Imitating  her.]  Not  at  all  funnj' — vulgar!  I 
don't  understand  how  to  behave  in  the  company  of  ladies.  Mad-t 
am,  in  the  course  of  my  life  I  have  seen  more  women  than  you 
have  sparrows.  Three  times  have  I  fought  duels  for  women, 
twelve  I  jilted  and  nine  jilted  me.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
played  the  fool,  used  honeyed  language,  bowed  and  scraped.  I 
loved,  suffered,  sighed  to  the  moon,  melted  in  love's  torments. 
I  loved  passionately,  I  loved  to  madness,  loved  in  every  key, 
chattered  like  a  magpie  on  emancipation,  sacrificed  half  my  for- 
tune in  the  tender  passion,  until  now  the  devil  knows  I've  had 
enough  of  it.  Your  obedient  servant  will  let  you  lead  him 
around  by  the  nose  no  more.  Enough !  Black  eyes,  passionate 
eyes,  coral  lips,  dimples  in  cheeks,  moonlight  whispers,  soft,  mod- 
est sighs — for  all  that,  madam,  I  wouldn't  pay  a  kopeck  !  I  am 
not  speaking  of  present  company,  but  of  women  in  general; 
from  the  tiniest  to  the  greatest,  they  are  conceited,  hypocritical, 
chattering,  odious,  deceitful  from  top  to  toe;  vain,  petty,  cruel 
with  a  maddening  logic  and  [he  strikes  his  forehead]  in  this  respect, 
please  excuse  my  frankness,  but  one  sparrow  is  worth  ten  of  the 
aforementioned  petticoat-philosophers.  When  one  sees  one  of 
the  romantic  creatures  before  him  he  imagines  he  is  looking  at 
some  holy  being,  so  wonderful  that  its  one  breath  could  dissolve 


THE    BOOR  167 

him  in  a  sea  of  a  thousand  charms  and  delights;  but  if  one  looks 
into  the  soul — it's  nothing  but  a  common  crocodile.  [He  seizes 
the  arm-chair  and  breaks  it  in  two.]  But  the  worst  of  all  is  that 
this  crocodile  imagines  it  is  a  masterpiece  of  creation,  and  that 
it  has  a  monopoly  on  all  the  tender  passions.  May  the  devil 
hang  me  upside  down  if  there  is  anything  to  love  about  a  woman  ! 
When  she  is  in  love,  all  she  knows  is  how  to  complain  and  shed 
tears.  If  the  man  suffers  and  makes  sacrifices  she  swings  her 
train  about  and  tries  to  lead  him  by  the  nose.  You  have  the 
misfortune  to  be  a  woman,  and  naturally  you  know  woman's 
nature;  tell  me  on  your  honor,  have  you  ever  in  your  life  seen  a 
woman  who  was  really  true  and  faithful  ?  Never !  Only  the 
old  and  the  deformed  are  true  and  faithful.  It's  easier  to  find 
a  cat  with  horns  or  a  white  woodcock,  than  a  faithful  woman. 

Mrs.  Popov.  But  allow  me  to  ask,  who  is  true  and  faithful 
in  love  ?     The  man,  perhaps  ? 

Smirnov.     Yes,  indeed  !     The  man  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  The  man !  [She  laughs  sarcastically.]  The 
man  true  and  faithful  in  love !  Well,  that  is  something  new ! 
[Bitterly.]  How  can  you  make  such  a  statement  ?  Men  true  and 
faithful !  So  long  as  we  have  gone  thus  far,  I  may  as  well  say 
that  of  all  the  men  I  have  known,  my  husband  was  the  best;  I 
loved  him  passionately  with  all  my  soul,  as  only  a  young,  sensible 
woman  may  love;  I  gave  him  my  youth,  my  happiness,  my  for- 
tune, my  life.  I  worshipped  him  like  a  heathen.  And  what  hap- 
pened.? This  best  of  men  betrayed  me  in  every  possible  way. 
After  his  death  I  found  his  desk  filled  with  love-letters.  While 
he  was  alive  he  left  me  alone  for  months — it  is  horrible  even  to 
think  about  it — ^he  made  love  to  other  women  in  my  very  pres- 
ence, he  wasted  my  money  and  made  fun  of  my  feelings — and  in 
spite  of  everything  I  trusted  him  and  was  true  to  him.  And 
more  than  that:  he  is  dead  and  I  am  still  true  to  him.  I  have 
buried  myself  within  these  four  walls  and  I  shall  wear  this 
mourning  to  my  grave. 


168  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

Smirnov.  [Laughing  disrespectfully.]  Mourning !  "\^Tiat  on 
earth  do  you  take  me  for?  As  if  I  didn't  know  why  you  wore 
this  black  domino  and  why  you  buried  yourself  within  these 
four  walls.  Such  a  secret !  So  romantic !  Some  knight  will 
pass  the  castle,  gaze  up  at  the  windows,  and  think  to  himself: 
"Here  dwells  the  mysterious  Tamara  who,  for  love  of  her  hus- 
band, has  buried  herself  within  four  walls."  Oh,  I  understand 
the  art ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Springing  vp.]  What.'^  \\Tiat  do  you  mean 
by  saying  such  things  to  me.^^ 

Smirnov.  You  have  buried  yourself  alive,  but  meanwhile  you 
have  not  forgotten  to  powder  your  nose  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.     How  dare  j^ou  speak  so  ? 

Smirnov.  Don't  scream  at  me,  please;  I'm  not  the  manager. 
Allow  me  to  call  things  by  their  right  names.  I  am  not  a  woman, 
and  I  am  accustomed  to  speak  out  what  I  think.  So  please  don't 
scream. 

Mrs.  Popov.  I'm  not  screaming.  It  is  you  who  are  scream- 
ing.    Please  leave  me,  I  beg  of  you. 

Smirnov.     Pay  me  my  money  and  I'll  leave. 

IVIrs.  Popov.     I  won't  give  you  the  money. 

Smirnov.     You  won't?     You  won't  give  me  my  money? 

Mrs.  Popov.  I  don't  care  what  you  do.  You  won't  get  a 
kopeck  !     Leave  me  ! 

Smirnov.  As  I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  being  either  your  hus- 
band or  your  fiance,  please  don't  make  a  scene.  [He  sits  down.] 
I  can't  stand  it. 

Mrs.  Popov.     [Breathing  hard.]     You  are  going  to  sit  down  ? 

Smirnov.    I  already  have. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Kindly  leave  the  house ! 

Smirnov.     Give  me  the  money. 

Mrs.  Popov.  I  don't  care  to  speak  with  impudent  men. 
Leave  i     [PauM.]     You  aren't  going  ? 

Smirnov.    No. 


THE    BOOR  169 

Mrs.  Popov.    No? 

Smirnov.     No. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Very  well.  [She  rings  the  bell, 

[Enter  Luka. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Luka,  show  the  gentleman  out. 

Luka.  [Going  to  Smirnov.]  Sir,  why  don't  you  leave  when 
you  are  ordered  ?     What  do  you  want  ? 

Smirnov.  [Jumping  up.]  Whom  do  you  think  you  are  talk- 
ing to  ?     I'll  grind  you  to  powder. 

Luka.  [Puts  his  hand  to  his  heart.]  Good  Lord !  [He  drops 
into  a  chair.]     Oh,  I'm  ill;  I  can't  breathe ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  Where  is  Dascha.^*  [Calling.]  Dascha!  Pe- 
lageja !     Dascha !  [She  rings. 

Luka.    They're  all  gone !    I'm  ill !     Water ! 

Mrs.  Popov.     [To  Smirnov.]     Leave !     Get  out ! 

Smirnov.     Kindly  be  a  little  more  polite  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Striking  her  fists  and  stamping  her  feet.]  You 
are  vulgar !     You're  a  boor !     A  monster ! 

Smirnov.     What  did  you  say  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     I  said  you  were  a  boor,  a  monster! 

Smirnov.  [Steps  toward  her  quickly.]  Permit  me  to  ask  what 
right  you  have  to  insult  me  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.     What  of  it  .^     Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  you  .^^ 

Smirnov.  And  you  think  that  because  you  are  a  romantic 
creature  you  can  insult  me  without  being  punished  ?  I  challenge 
you! 

Luka.     Merciful  Heaven  !     Water ! 

Smirnov.     We'll  have  a  duel. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Do  you  think  because  you  have  big  fists  and  a 
steer's  neck  I  am  afraid  of  you  ? 

Smirnov.  I  allow  no  one  to  insult  me,  and  I  make  no  excep- 
tion because  you  are  a  woman,  one  of  the  "weaker  sex"  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.     [Trying  to  cry  him  down.]     Boor,  boor,  boor ! 

Smirnov.     It  is  high  time  to  do  away  with  the  old  superstition 


170  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

that  it  is  only  the  man  who  is  forced  to  give  satisfaction.  If 
there  is  equity  at  all  let  there  be  equity  in  all  things.  There's  a 
limit ! 

JVIrs.  Popov.     You  wish  to  fight  a  duel  ?     Very  well. 

Smirnov.     Immediately. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Immediately.  My  husband  had  pistols.  I'll 
bring  them.  [She  hurries  away,  then  turns.]  Oh,  what  a  pleasure 
it  will  be  to  put  a  bullet  in  your  impudent  head.  The  devil  take 
you  !  [She  goes  out. 

Smirnov.  I'll  shoot  her  down!  I'm  no  fiedgling,  no  senti- 
mental 3' oung  puppy.     For  me  there  is  no  weaker  sex  ! 

LuKA.  Oh,  sir.  [Falls  to  his  knees.]  Have  mercy  on  me,  an 
old  man,  and  go  away.  You  have  frightened  me  to  death  al- 
ready, and  now  you  w^ant  to  fight  a  duel. 

Smirnov.  [Paying  no  attention.]  A  duel.  That's  equity, 
emancipation.  That  way  the  sexes  are  made  equal.  I'll  shoot 
her  down  as  a  matter  of  principle.  What  can  a  person  say  to 
such  a  w^oman?  [Imitating  her.]  "The  devil  take  you.  I'll 
put  a  bullet  in  your  impudent  head."  What  can  one  say  to  that  ? 
She  was  angry,  her  eyes  blazed,  she  accepted  the  challenge.  On 
my  honor,  it's  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  ever  saw  such  a 
■woman. 

LuKA.     Oh,  sir.     Go  away.     Go  away ! 

Smirnov.  That  is  a  woman.  I  can  understand  her.  A  real 
woman.  No  shilly-shallying,  but  fire,  powder,  and  noise !  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  shoot  a  woman  like  that. 

LuKA.     [Weeping.]     Oh,  sir,  go  away. 
[Enter  Mrs.  Popov. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Here  are  the  pistols.  But  before  we  have  our 
duel,  please  show  me  how  to  shoot.  I  have  never  had  a  pistol  in 
my  hand  before ! 

LuKA.  God  be  merciful  and  have  pity  upon  us !  I'll  go  and 
get  the  gardener  and  the  coachman.  Why  lias  this  horror  come 
to  ufi  ?  [He  goes  out. 


THE    BOOR  171 

Smienov.  [Looking  at  the  pistols.]  You  see,  there  are  differ- 
ent kinds.  There  are  special  duelling  pistols,  with  cap  and  ball. 
But  these  are  revolvers,  Smith  &  Wesson,  with  ejectors;  fine  pis- 
tols !  A  pair  like  that  cost  at  least  ninety  roubles.  This  is  the 
way  to  hold  a  revolver.  [Aside.]  Those  eyes,  those  eyes !  A 
real  woman ! 

Mrs.  Popov.     Like  this  ? 

Smirnov.  Yes,  that  way.  Then  you  pull  the  hammer  back 
— so — then  you  aim — put  your  head  back  a  little.  Just  stretch 
your  arm  out,  please.  So — then  press  your  finger  on  the  thing 
like  that,  and  that  is  all.  The  chief  thing  is  this:  don't  get  ex- 
cited, don't  hurry  your  aim,  and  take  care  that  your  hand 
doesn't  tremble. 

Mrs.  Popov.  It  isn't  well  to  shoot  inside;  let's  go  into  the 
garden. 

Smirnov.  Yes.  I'll  tell  you  now,  I  am  going  to  shoot  into 
the  air. 

Mrs.  Popov.     That  is  too  much !     Why  ? 

Smirnov.     Because — because.     That's  my  business. 

Mrs.  Popov.  You  are  afraid.  Yes.  A-h-h-h.  No,  no,  my 
dear  sir,  no  flinching !  Please  follow  me.  I  won't  rest  until  I've 
made  a  hole  in  that  head  I  hate  so  much.     Are  you  afraid  ? 

Smirnov.    Yes,  I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Popov.     You  are  lying.     Why  won't  you  fight  ? 

Smirnov.    Because — because — I — like  you. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [With  an  angry  laugh.]  You  like  me!  He 
dares  to  say  he  likes  me  !     [She  points  to  the  door.]     Go. 

Smirnov.  [Laying  the  revolver  silently  on  the  table,  takes  his 
hat  and  starts.  At  the  door  he  stops  a  moment,  gazing  at  her  si- 
lently, then  he  approaches  her,  hesitating.]  Listen  !  Are  you  still 
angry  ?  I  was  mad  as  the  devil,  but  please  understand  me — how 
can  I  express  myself  ?  The  thing  is  like  this — such  things  are — 
[He  raises  his  voice.]  Now,  is  it  my  fault  that  you  owe  me 
money  ?     [Grasps  the  back  of  the  chair y  which  breaks.]    The  devil 


172  ANTON    TCHEKOV 

knows  what  breakable  furniture  you  have !     I  like  you !     Do 
you  understand  ?     I — I'm  almost  in  love  ! 

Mrs.  Popov.     Leave !     I  hate  you. 

Smirnov.  Lord !  What  a  woman !  I  never  in  my  life  met 
one  like  her.  I'm  lost,  ruined  !  I've  been  caught  like  a  mouse 
in  a  trap. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Go,  or  I'll  shoot. 

Smirnov.  Shoot!  You  have  no  idea  what  happiness  it 
would  be  to  die  in  sight  of  those  beautiful  eyes,  to  die  from  the 
revolver  in  this  little  velvet  hand  !  I'm  mad  !  Consider  it  and 
decide  immediately,  for  if  I  go  now,  we  shall  never  see  each 
other  again.  Decide — speak — I  am  a  noble,  a  respectable  man, 
have  an  income  of  ten  thousand,  can  shoot  a  coin  thrown  into 
the  air.     I  own  some  fine  horses.     Will  you  be  my  wife  .^ 

Mrs.  Popov.     [Swings  the  revolver  angrily.]     I'll  shoot ! 

Smirxov.  My  mind  is  not  clear — I  can't  understand.  Ser- 
vant— water !  I  have  fallen  in  love  like  any  young  man.  [He 
takes  her  hand  and  she  cries  with  pain.]  I  love  you  !  [He  kneels.] 
I  love  you  as  I  have  never  loved  before.  Twelve  women  I  jilted, 
nine  jilted  me,  but  not  one  of  them  all  have  I  loved  as  I  love  you. 
I  am  conquered,  lost;  I  lie  at  your  feet  like  a  fool  and  beg  for 
your  hand.  Shame  and  disgrace  !  For  five  years  I  haven't  been 
in  love;  I  thanked  the  Lord  for  it,  and  now  I  am  caught,  like  a 
carriage  tongue  in  another  carriage.  I  beg  for  your  hand  !  Yes 
or  no  ?     Will  you  ? — Good  ! 

[He  gels  up  and  goes  quickly  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Popov.     Wait  a  moment ! 

Smirnov.     [Stopping.]    Well  ? 

Mrs.  Popov.  Nothing.  You  may  go.  But — ^wait  a  mo- 
ment. No,  go  on,  go  on.  I  hate  you.  Or — no;  don't  go.  Oh, 
if  you  knew  how  angry  I  was,  how  angry  !  [She  throws  the  revolver 
on  to  the  chair.]  My  finger  is  swollen  from  this  thing.  [She  an- 
grily tears  her  handkerchief.]  \Miat  are  you  standing  there  for.'* 
Get  out ! 


THE    BOOR  173 

Smirnov.    Farewell ! 

Mrs.  Popov.  Yes,  go.  [Cries  out.]  Why  are  you  going.? 
Wait — no,  go ! !  Oh,  how  angry  I  am  !  Don't  come  too  near, 
don't  come  too  near — er — come — no  nearer. 

Smirnov.  [Approaching  her.]  How  angry  I  am  with  myself ! 
Fall  in  lov^e  like  a  schoolboy,  throw  myself  on  my  knees.  I've 
got  a  chill !  [Strongly.]  I  love  you.  This  is  fine — all  I  needed 
was  to  fall  in  love.  To-morrow  I  have  to  pay  my  interest,  the 
hay  harvest  has  begun,  and  then  you  appear !  [He  takes  her  in 
his  arms.]     I  can  never  forgive  myself. 

Mrs.  Popov.  Go  away !  Take  your  hands  ofiF  me !  I  hate 
you — you — this  is —  [A  long  kiss. 

[Enter  Luka  with  an  axe,  the  gardener  with  a  rake,  the 
coachman  with  a  pitchfork,  and  workmen  with  poles. 

Luka.     [Staring  at  the  pair.]     Merciful  heavens ! 
[A  long  pause. 

Mrs.  Popov.  [Dropping  her  eyes.]  Tell  them  in  the  stable 
that  Tobby  isn't  to  have  any  oats. 

CURTAIN 


THE  LAST  STRAW 

BY 

BOSWORTH  CROCKER 


The  Last  Straw  Is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Bosworth  Crocker. 
All  rights  reserved.  For  permission  to  perform,  address  the  author,  care 
Society  of  American  Dramatists  and  Composers,  148  West  45th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


BOSWORTH  CROCKER 

Bosworth  Crocker  was  born  March  2,  1882,  in  Surrey,  Eng- 
land. While  still  a  child  he  was  brought  to  the  United  States. 
He  lives  in  New  York  City  and  may  be  reached  in  care  of  the 
Society  of  American  Dramatists  and  Composers,  148  West  45th 
Street. 

In  addition  to  Pawns  of  War  and  Stone  Walls,  he  has  written 
a  number  of  one-act  plays,  The  Dog,  The  First  Time,  The  Cost  of 
a  Hat,  The  Hour  Before,  The  Baby  Carriage,  and  The  Last  Straw. 

The  Last  Straw,  produced  by  the  Washington  Square  Players 
in  New  York  City,  is  an  excellent  one-act  tragedy,  based  upon 
the  psychological  law  of  suggestion. 


CAST 

Friedrich  Bauer,  janitor  of  the  Bryn  Maior 

MiENE,  his  vnfe 

Karl,  elder  son,  aged  ten 

Fritzi,  younger  son,  aged  seven 

Jim  Lane,  a  grocer  boy 


THE  LAST  STRAW* 

TIME:  The  present  day. 

SCENE :  The  basement  of  a  large  apartment-house  in  New  York 
City. 

SCENE:  The  kitchen  of  the  Bauer  flat  in  the  basement  of  the  Bryn 
Mawr.  A  window  at  the  side  gives  on  an  area  and  shows  the 
walk  above  and  the  houses  across  the  street.  Opposite  the 
windows  is  a  door  to  an  inner  room.  Through  the  outer  door, 
in  the  centre  of  the  back  wall,  a  dumb-waiier  and  whistles  to 
tenants  can  be  seen.  A  broken  milk-bottle  lies  in  a  puddle  of 
milk  on  the  cement  floor  in  front  of  the  dumb-waiter.  To  the 
right  of  the  outer  door,  a  telephone ;  gas-range  on  which  there 
are  flat-irons  heating  and  vegetables  cooking.  To  the  left  of 
the  outer  door  is  an  old  sideboard;  over  it  hangs  a  picture  of 
Schiller.  Near  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  little  to  the  right, 
stands  a  kitchen  table  with  four  chairs  around  it.  Ironing- 
board  is  placed  between  the  kitchen  table  and  the  sink,  a  basket 
of  dampened  clothes  under  it.  A  large  calendar  on  the  wall. 
An  alarm-clock  on  the  windoiv-sill.  Time :  a  little  before 
noon.  The  telephone  rings ;  Mrs.  Bauer  leaves  her  ironing 
and  goes  to  answer  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  No,  Mr.  Bauer's  out  yet.  [She  listens  through 
the  transmitter.]  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Mohler.  [Another  pause.] 
I'll  tell  him  just  so  soon  he  comes  in — yes,  ma'am. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  goes  back  to  her  ironing.     Grocer  boy  rushes 
into  basement,  whistling;  he  puts  down  his  basket,  goes 
up  to  Mrs.  Bauer's  door  and  looks  in. 
Lane.     Say — where's  the  boss  ? 

*  Copyright,  1914,  by  Bosworth  Crocker.     All  rights  reserved. 
179 


180  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

Mrs.  Bauer.  He'll  be  home  soon,  I — hope — Jim.  What 
you  want  ? 

[He  stands  looking  at  her  with  growing  sympathy. 

Lane.  Nothin'.  Got  a  rag  'round  here .?  Dumb-waiter's  all 
wet.  .  .  .     Lot  of  groceries  for  Sawyers. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Without  lifting  her  eyes,  mechanically  hands 
him  a  mop  which  hangs  beside  the  door.]     Here. 

Lane.     What's  the  matter.? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Dully.]    Huh? 

Lane.     [Significantly.]    Oh,  I  know. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     What  you  know  ? 

Lane.  About  the  boss.  [Mrs.  Bauer  looks  distressed.] 
Heard  your  friends  across  the  street  talkin'. 

;Mrs.  Bauer.     [Bitterly.]     Friends! 

Lane.  Rotten  trick  to  play  on  the  boss,  all  right,  puttin* 
that  old  maid  up  to  get  him  pinched. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Absently.]     Was  she  an  old  maid  ? 

Lane.  The  cruel ty-to-animals  woman  over  there  [waves  his 
hand] — regular  old  crank.     Nies*  put  her  up  to  it  all  right. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  I  guess  it  was  his  old  woman.  Nies  ain't  so 
bad.  She's  the  one.  Because  my  two  boys  dress  up  a  little  on 
Sunday,  she  don't  like  it. 

Lane.  Yes,  she's  sore  because  the  boys  told  her  the  boss 
kicks  their  dog. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  He  don't  do  nothin'  of  the  sort — jus'  drives  it 
'way  from  the  garbage-pails — that's  all.  We  coulda  had  that 
dog  took  up  long  ago — they  ain't  got  no  license.  But  Fritz — 
he's  so  easy — he  jus'  takes  it  out  chasin'  the  dog  and  hollerin'. 

Lane.  That  ain't  no  way.  He  ought  to  make  the  dog  holler 
— ^good  and  hard — once ;  then  it'd  keep  out  of  here. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Don't  you  go  to  talkin'  like  that  'round  my 
man.     Look  at  all  this  trouble  we're  in  on  account  of  a  stray  cat. 

Lane.     I  better  get  busy.     They'll  be  callin'  up  the  store  in 

*  Pronounced  niece. 


THE    LAST    STRAW  181 

a  minute.  That  woman's  the  limit.  .  .  .  Send  up  the  groceries 
in  that  slop,  she'd  send  them  down  again.  High-toned  people 
like  her  ought  to  keep  maids. 

[He  mops  out  the  lower  shelf  of  the  dumb-waiter,  then  looks 
at  the  broken  bottle  and  the  puddle  of  milk  inquiringly. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Taking  the  mop  away  from  him.]  I'll  clean 
that  up.     I  forgot — in  all  this  trouble. 

Lane.     WTiose  mUk  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.  The  Mohlers'.  That's  how  it  all  happened. 
Somebody  upset  their  milk  on  the  dumb-waiter  and  the  cat  was 
on  the  shelf  lickin'  it  up;  my  man,  not  noticin',  starts  the  waiter 
up  and  the  cat  tries  to  jump  out;  the  bottle  rolls  off  and  breaks. 
The  cat  was  hurt  awful — caught  in  the  shaft.  I  don't  see  how 
it  coulda  run  after  that,  but  it  did — right  into  the  street,  right 
into  that  woman — ^Fritz  after  it.  Then  it  fell  over.  "You  did 
that.?"  she  says  to  Fritz.  "Yes,"  he  says,  "I  did  that."  He 
didn't  say  no  more,  jus'  went  off,  and  then  after  a  while  they 
came  for  him  and [She  begins  to  cry  softly. 

Lane.  Brace  up;  they  ain't  goin'  to  do  anything  to  him.  .  .  . 
[Comes  into  kitchen.  Hesitatingly.]  Say !  .  .  .  He  didn't  kick 
the  cat — did  he  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Who  said  so? 

Lane.     Mrs.  Nies — says  she  saw  him  from  her  window. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [As  though  to  herself.]  I  dunno.  [Excitedly.] 
Of  course  he  didn't  kick  that  cat.  [Again,  as  though  to  herself.] 
Fritz  is  so  quick-tempered  he  mighta  kicked  it  'fore  he  knew 
what  he  was  about.  No  one'd  ever  know  how  good  Fritz  is 
unless  they  lived  with  him.  He  never  hurt  no  one  and  nothing 
except  himself. 

Lane.     Oh,  I'm  on  to  the  boss.     I  never  mind  his  hollerin'. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  If  you  get  a  chance,  bring  me  some  butter  for 
dinner — ^a  pound. 

Lane.  All  right.  I'll  run  over  with  it  in  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes, soon  as  I  get  rid  of  these  orders  out  here  in  the  wagon. 


182  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

Mrs.  Bauer.    That'll  do. 

[She  moves  about  apathetically,  lays  the  cloth  on  the  kitchen 
table  and  begins  to  set  it.  Lane  goes  to  the  dumb-waiter, 
whistles  up  the  tube,  puts  the  basket  of  groceries  on  the 
shelf  of  the  dumb-waiter,  pulls  rope  and  sends  waiter  up. 
Mrs.  Bauer  continues  to  set  the  table.  Boys  from  the 
street  suddenly  swoop  into  the  basement  and  yell. 
Chorus  of  Boys'  Voices.  Who  killed  the  cat !  A\Tio  killed 
the  cat ! 

Lane.     [Letting  the  rope  go  and  making  a  dive  for  the  boys.]    I'll 

show  you,  you 

[They  rush  out,  Mrs.  Bauer  stands  despairingly  in  the 
doorway  shaking  her  clasped  hands. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     Those  are  Nies's  boys. 

Lane.  Regular  toughs !  Call  the  cop  and  have  'em  pinched 
if  they  don't  stop  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  If  my  man  hears  them — you  know — there'll 
be  more  trouble. 

Lane.     The  boss  ought  to  make  it  hot  for  them. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     Such  trouble ! 
Lane.     [Starts  to  go.]     Well — luck  to  the  boss. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     There  ain't  no  such  thing  as  luck  for  us. 
Lane.    Aw,  come  on.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Everything's  against  us.  First  Fritz's  mother 
dies.  We  named  the  baby  after  her — ^Trude.  .  .  .  Then  we 
lost  Trude.  That  finished  Fritz.  After  that  he  began  this  hol- 
lerin'  business.  And  now  this  here  trouble — just  when  things 
was  goin'  half-ways  decent  for  the  first  time. 

[She  pushes  past  him  and  goes  to  her  ironing. 
Lane.     [Shakes  his  head  sympathetically  and  takes  up  his  bas- 
ket.]    A  pound,  you  said  ? 
Mrs.  Bauer.     Yes. 

Lane.  All  right.  [He  starts  off  and  then  rushes  back.]  Here's 
the  boss  comin',  Mrs.  Bauer.  [Rushes  off  again. 


THE    LAST    STRAW  183 

Lane's  Voice.     [Cheerfully.]     Hello,  there ! 

Bauer's  Voice.     [Dull  and  strained.]     Hello ! 

[Bauer  comes  in.  His  naturally  bright  blue  eyes  are  tired 
and  lustreless;  his  strong  frame  seems  to  have  lost  all  vigor 
and  alertness ;  there  is  a  look  of  utter  despondency  on  his 
face. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Closing  the  door  after  him.]     They  let  you  off  ? 

Bauer.  [With  a  hard  little  laugh.]  Yes,  they  let  me  off — they 
let  me  off  with  a  fine  all  right. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Aghast.]     They  think  you  did  it  then. 

Bauer.     [Harshly.]     The  judge  fined  me,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Unable  to  express  her  poignant  sympathy.] 
Fined  you  !  .  .  .     Oh,  Fritz  ! 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Bauer.  [Roughly,  to  keep  himself  from  going  to  pieces.]  That 
slop  out  there  ain't  cleaned  up  yet. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     I've  been  so  worried. 

Bauer.  [With  sudden  desperation.]  I  can't  stand  it,  I  tell 
you. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Well,  it's  all  over  now,  Fritz. 

Bauer.     Yes,  it's  all  over  .  .  .  it's  all  up  with  me. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Fritz ! 

Bauer.     That's  one  sure  thing. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     You  oughtn't  to  give  up  like  this. 

Bauer.  [Pounding  on  the  table.]  I  tell  you  I  can't  hold  up 
my  head  again. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Whj^  Fritz  ? 

Bauer.  They've  made  me  out  guilty.  The  judge  fined  me. 
Fined  me,  Miene !  How  is  that  ?  Can  a  man  stand  for  that  ? 
The  woman  said  I  told  her  myself — right  out — that  I  did  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  The  woman  that  had  you — [he  winces  as  she 
hesitates]  took  ? 

Bauer.     Damned 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth.]     Hush,  Fritz. 


184  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

Bauer.  Why  will  I  hush,  Miene  ?  She  said  I  was  proud  of 
the  job.  [Passionately  raising  his  voice.]  The  damned  inter- 
ferin' 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Don't  holler,  Fritz.  It's  your  hollerin'  that's 
made  all  this  trouble. 

Bauer.  [Penetrated  hy  her  words  more  and  more.]  My  hol- 
lerin' !  .  .  .  [The  telephone  rings ;  she  answers  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Yes,  Mrs.  Mohler,  he's  come  in  now. — Yes. 
— Won't  after  dinner  do  ? — All  right. — ^Thank  you,  Mrs.  Mohler. 
[She  hangs  up  the  receiver.]  Mrs.  Mohler  wants  you  to  fix  her 
sink  right  after  dinner. 

Bauer.     I'm  not  goin'  to  do  smy  more  fixin'  around  here. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You  hold  on  to  yourself,  Fritz;  that's  no  way 
to  talk;  Mrs.  Mohler's  a  nice  woman. 

Bauer.  I  don't  want  to  see  no  more  nice  women.  [After  a 
pause.]  Hollerin' ! — that's  what's  the  matter  with  me — hollerin', 
eh.'*     Well,  I've  took  it  all  out  in  hollerin'. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  They  hear  j^ou  and  they  think  you've  got  no 
feelings. 

Bauer.  [In  utter  amazement  at  the  irony  of  the  situation.]  And 
I  was  goin'  after  the  damned  cat  to  take  care  of  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     W^hy  didn't  you  tell  the  judge  all  about  it  ? 

Bauer.  They  got  me  rattled  among  them.  The  lady  was 
so  soft  and  pleasant — "He  must  be  made  to  understand,  your 
honor,"  she  said  to  the  judge,  "that  dumb  animals  has  feelin's, 
too,  just  as  well  as  human  beings" — Me,  Miene — made  to  under- 
stand that !  I  couldn't  say  nothin'.  My  voice  just  stuck  in  my 
throat. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  What's  the  matter  with  you !  You  oughta 
spoke  up  and  told  the  judge  just  how  it  all  happened. 

Bauer.  I  said  to  myself :  I'll  go  home  and  put  a  bullet  through 
my  head — that's  the  best  thing  for  me  now. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [With  impatient  unbelief.]  Ach,  Fritz,  Fritz  J 
[Clatter  of  feet. 


THE    LAST    STRAW  185 

Chorus  of  Voices.  [At  the  outer  door.]  Who  killed  the  cat ! 
Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[Bauer  jumps  up,  pale  and  shaken  with  strange  rage ;  she 
pushes  him  gently  back  into  his  chair,  opens  the  door, 
steps  out  for  a  moment,  then  comes  in  and  leaves  the  door 
open  behind  her. 

Bauer.  You  see.'^  .  .  .  Even  the  kids  .  .  .  I'm  disgraced 
all  over  the  place. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     So  long  as  you  didn't  hurt  the  cat 

Bauer.     What's  the  difference  ?     Everybody  believes  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     No,  they  don't,  Fritz. 

Bauer.  You  can't  fool  me,  Miene.  I  see  it  in  their  eyes. 
They  looked  away  from  me  when  I  was  comin'  'round  the  corner. 
Some  of  them  kinder  smiled  like — [passes  his  hand  over  his  head]. 
Even  the  cop  says  to  me  on  the  way  over,  yesterday:  "Don't  you 
put  your  foot  in  it  any  more'u  you  have  to."  You  see.?  He 
thought  I  did  it  all  right.     Everybody  believes  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Putting  towels  away.]  Well,  then  let  them  be- 
lieve it.  .  .  .     The  agent  don't  believe  it. 

Bauer.     I  dunno.     He'da  paid  my  jBne  anyhow. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     He  gave  you  a  good  name. 

Bauer.  [With  indignant  derision.]  He  gave  me  a  good  name  ! 
.  .  .  Haven't  I  always  kept  this  place  all  right  since  we  been 
here.'*  Afterward  he  said  to  me:  "I'm  surprised  at  this  busi- 
ness, Bauer,  very  much  surprised."  That  shows  what  he  thinks. 
I  told  him  it  ain't  true,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  it.  I  saw  by  his 
eyes  he  didn't  believe  me. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     W^ell,  don't  you  worry  any  more  now. 

Bauer.     [To  himself.]     Hollerin' ! 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Shuts  the  door.]  Well,  now,  holler  a  little  if 
it  does  you  good. 

Bauer.     Nothin's  goin'  to  do  me  good. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     You  just  put  it  out  of  your  mind.     [The  tele- 


186  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

phone  rings.     She  answers  it.]     Yes,  but  he  can't  come  now,  Mrs. 
McAllister.     He'll  be  up  this  afternoon. 

[She  hangs  up  the  receiver, 

Bauer.     And  I  ain't  goin'  this  afternoon — nowhere. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  It's  Mrs.  McAllister.  Somethin's  wrong  with 
her  refrigerator — the  water  won't  run  off,  she  says. 

Bauer.     They  can  clean  out  their  own  drain -pipes. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You  go  to  work  and  get  your  mind  off  this 
here  business. 

Bauer.  [Staring  straight  ahead  of  him.]  I  ain't  goin'  'round 
among  the  people  in  this  house  ...  to  have  them  lookin'  at 
me  .  .  .  disgraced  like  this. 

IVIrs.  Bauer.  You  want  to  hold  up  your  head  and  act  as  if 
nothm's  happened. 

Bauer.  Nobody  spoke  to  me  at  the  dumb-waiter  when  I 
took  off  the  garbage  and  paper  this  morning.  Mrs.  Mohler  al- 
ways says,  something  pleasant. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You  just  think  that  because  you're  all  upset. 
[The  telephone  rings  ;  she  goes  to  it  and  listens.]  Yes,  ma'am,  I'll 
see.  Fritz,  have  you  any  fine  wire  ?  Mrs.  McAllister  thinks  she 
might  try  and  fix  the  drain  w  ith  it — till  you  come  up. 

Bauer.     I  got  no  wire. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  ]VIr.  Bauer'll  fix  it — right  after  dinner,  Mrs. 
McAllister.  [Impatiently.]  He  can't  find  the  wire  this  minute 
— soon's  he  eats  his  dinner. 

Bauer.     [Doggedly.]     You'll  see.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Soothingly.]  Come  now,  Fritz,  give  me  your 
hat.  [She  takes  his  hat  from  him. 

Voices  IN  the  Street.  [Receding  from  the  front  area.]  Who 
killed  the  cat !     Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[Bauer  rushes  toward  the  windoio  in  a  fury  of  excitement. 

Bauer.  [Shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice.]  Verdammte  loafers ! 
Schweine ! 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Goes  up  to  him.]     Fritz  !     Fritz  ! 


THE    LAST    STRAW  187 

Bauer.     [Collapses  and  drops  into  chair.]     You  hear  'em. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Don't  pay  no  attention,  then  they'll  get  tired. 

Bauer.  Miene,  we  must  go  away.  I  can't  stand  it  here  no 
longer. 

IVIrs.  Bauer.  But  there's  not  such  another  good  place,  Fritz 
— and  the  movin'  .  .  . 

Bauer.     I  say  I  can't  stand  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Desperately.]  It  ...  it  would  be  just  the 
same  any  other  place. 

Bauer.     Just  the  same  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Yes,  something'd  go  wrong  anyhow. 

Bauer.     You  think  I'm  a  regular  Jonah. 

[He  shakes  his  head  repeatedly  in  the  affirmative,  as  though 
wholly  embracing  her  point  of  view. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Folks  don't  get  to  know  you.  They  hear  you 
hollerin'  'round  and  they  think  you  beat  the  children  and  kick 
the  dogs  and  cats. 

Bauer.     Do  I  ever  lick  the  children  when  they  don't  need  it  ? 

Mrs,  Bauer.    Not  Fritzi. 

Bauer.  You  want  to  spoil  Karl.  I  just  touch  him  with  the 
strap  once,  a  little — like  this  [illustrates  with  a  gesture]  to  scare 
him,  and  he  howls  like  hell. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Yes,  and  then  he  don't  mind  you  no  more  be- 
cause he  knows  you  don't  mean  it. 

Bauer.  [To  himself.]  That's  the  way  it  goes  ...  a  man's 
own  wife  and  children  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Attending  to  the  dinner.  Irritably.]  Fritz,  if 
you  would  clean  that  up  out  there — and  Mrs.  Carroll  wants  her 
waste-basket.     You  musta  forgot  to  send  it  up  again. 

Bauer.     All  right. 

[He  goes  out  and  leaves  the  door  open.  She  stands  her  flat- 
iron  on  the  ledge  of  the  range  to  cool  and  puts  her  ironing- 
hoard  away,  watching  him  at  the  dumb-waiter  while  he 
picks  up  the  glass  arid  cleans  up  the  milk  on  the  cemerd 


188  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

floor.  He  disappears  for  a  moment,  then  he  comes  in 
again,  goes  to  a  drawer  and  takes  out  rags  and  a  bottle  of 
'polish. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Pushing  the  clothes-basket  out  of  the  way.] 
This  ain't  cleanin'  day,  Fritz. 

Bauer.  [Dully,  putting  the  polish  back  into  the  drawer.] 
That's  so. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Comforting  him.]  You've  got  to  eat  a  good 
dinner  and  then  go  up-stairs  and  fix  that  sink  for  Mrs.  Mohler 
and  the  drain  for  Mrs.  McAllister. 

Bauer.  [In  a  tense  voice.]  I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it.  .  .  . 
I  tell  you,  Miene.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.     What  now,  Fritz  ? 

Bauer.  People  laugh  in  my  face.  [Nods  in  the  direction  of 
the  street.]  Frazer's  boy  standin'  on  the  stoop  calls  his  dog  away 
when  it  runs  up  to  me  like  it  always  does. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Dogs  know  better'n  men  who's  good  to  them. 

Bauer.    He  acted  like  he  thought  I'd  kick  it. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You've  got  all  kinds  of  foolishness  in  your 
head  now.  .  .  .     You  sent  up  Carroll's  basket  ? 

Bauer.     No. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Well [She  checks  herself. 

Bauer.     All  right.  [He  gets  up. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     It's  settin'  right  beside  the  other  dumb-waiter. 
[He  goes  out.]     Oh,  Gott !— Oh,  Gott !— Oh,  Gott ! 
[Enter  K1\rl  and  Fritzi.     Fritzi  is  crying. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Running  to  them.]     What's  the  matter  ? 

[She  hushes  them  and  carefully  closes  the  door. 

Karl.     The  boys  make  fun  of  us;  they  mock  us. 

Fritzi.     They  mock   us — "Miau!    Miau!"   they  cry,   and 

then  they  go  like  this 

[Fritzi  imitates  kicking  and  breaks  out  crying  afresh. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Hush,  Fritzi,  you  mustn't  let  your  father 
hear. 


THE    LAST    STRAW  189 

Fritzi.     He'd  make  them  shut  up. 

EIajrl.     I  don't  want  to  go  to  school  this  afternoon. 

[He  doubles  his  fists. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Turning  on  him  fiercely.]  Why  not?  [In  an 
undertone.]  You  talk  that  way  before  your  little  brother. — 
Have  you  no  sense  ? 

Fritzi.  [Beginning  to  whimper.]  I  d-d-d-on't  want  to  go  to 
school  this  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You  just  go  'long  to  school  and  mind  your 
own  business. 

Karl  and  Fritzi.     [Together.]    But  the  boys.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  They  ain't  a-goin'  to  keep  it  up  forever. 
Don't  you  answer  them.  Just  go  'long  together  and  pay  no 
attention. 

Karl.     Then  they  get  fresher  and  fresher. 

Fritzi.  [Echoing  Karl.]  Yes,  then  they  get  fresher  and 
fresher. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  begins  to  take  up  the  dinner.     The  sound  of 
footfalls  just  outside  the  door  is  heard. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Go  on  now,  hang  up  your  caps  and  get  ready 
for  your  dinners. 

Fritzi.     I'm  going  to  tell  my  papa.  [Goes  to  inner  door. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  For  God's  sake,  Fritzi,  shut  up.  You  mustn't 
tell  no  one.     Papa'd  be  disgraced  all  over. 

Karl.     [Coming  up  to  her.]     Disgraced  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Hush! 

Karl.     Why  disgraced  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Because  there's  liars,  low-down,  snoopin'  liars 
in  the  world. 

Karl.     Who's  lied,  mama  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     The  janitress  across  the  street. 

EIarl.     Mrs.  Nies  ? 

Fritzi.     [Calling  out.]     Henny  Nies  is  a  tough. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Looking  toward  the  outer  door  anxiously  and 


190  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

shaking  her  head  threateningly  at  Fritzi.]     I  give  you  somethin', 
if  you  don't  stop  hollerin'  out  like  that. 

Karl.     Who'd  she  lie  to  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Never  mind.  Go  'long  now.  It's  time  you 
begin  to  eat. 

Karl.     What'd  she  lie  about  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Warningly.]  S-s-sh!  Papa'll  be  comin'  in 
now  in  a  minute. 

Karl.  It  was  Henny  Nies  set  the  gang  on  to  us.  I  coulda 
licked  them  all  if  I  hadn't  had  to  take  care  of  Fritzi. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You'll  get  a  lickin'  all  right  if  you  don't  keep 
away  from  Henny  Nies. 

Karl.  Well — if  they  call  me  names — and  say  my  father's 
been  to  the  station-house  for  killing  a  cat  .  .  ,? 

Fritzl     Miau!    Miau !    Miau! 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Hold  your  mouth. 

Fritzi.  [Sioaggering.]  My  father  never  was  in  jail — was  he, 
mama  ? 

Karl.     Course  not. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [To  Fritzi.]     Go,  wash  your  hands,  Fritzi. 

[She  steers  him  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room.     He  exits. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Distressed.]     Karl  .  .  . 

Karl.     [Turning  to  his  mother.]     Was  he,  mama? 

IVIrs.  Bauer.  Papa  don't  act  like  he  used  to.  Sometimes  I 
wonder  what's  come  over  him.  Of  course  it's  enough  to  ruin 
any  man's  temper,  all  the  trouble  we've  had. 

Chorus  of  Voices.  [From  the  area  by  the  window.]  Wlio 
killed  the  cat !     Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[Sound  of  feet  clattering  up  the  area  steps.     Fritzi  rushes 
in,  flourishing  a  revolver. 

Fritzi.     I  shoot  them,  mama. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Grabbing  the  revolver.]  Mein  Gott!  Fritzi! 
Papa's  pistol !  [She  examines  it  carefully.]  You  ever  touch  that 
again  and  I'll  .  .  .  [She  menaces  him. 


THE    LAST    STRAW  191 

Fritzi.     [Sulkily.]     I'll  save  up  my  money  and  buy  me  one. 

IVIrs.  Bauer.  [Smiling  a  little  to  herself.]  I  see  you  buyin' 
one.  [Carries  revolver  into  inner  room. 

Fritzi.  [In  a  loud  voice  and  as  though  shooting  at  Karl.] 
Bang !    Bang !    Bang ! 

[Karl  strikes  at  Fritzi;  Fritzi  dodges. 

Karl.  [To  his  mother  as  she  re-enters.]  Trouble  with  Fritzi 
is  he  don't  mind  me  any  more. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  You  wash  your  dirty  hands  and  face  this  min- 
ute— d'you  hear  me,  Fritzi ! 

Fritzi.  [Looking  at  his  hands.]  That's  ink-stains.  I  got  the 
highest  mark  in  spelling  to-day.  Capital  H-e-n-n-y,  capital 
N-i-e-s — Henny  Nies,  a  bum. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  makes  a  rush  at  him,  and  he  runs  back  into 
the  inner  room. 

Karl.  [Sitting  down  beside  the  table.]  Do  we  have  to  go  to 
school  this  afternoon  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     You  have  to  do  what  you  always  do. 

Karl.     Can't  we  stay  home?  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Fiercely.]    Why.?    Why.? 

Karl.     [Sheepishly.]     I  ain't  feelin'  well. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Karlchen !  .  .  .  schdm  dich ! 

Karl.     Till  the  boys  forget.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  Papa'd  know  somethin'  was  wrong  right 
away.  That'd  be  the  end.  You  mustn't  act  as  if  anything  was 
different  from  always. 

Karl.     [Indignantly.]     Sayin'  my  father's  been  to  jail ! 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Karl.  .  .  . 

Karl.     Papa'd  make  them  stop. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Panic-stricken.]  Karl,  don't  you  tell  papa 
nothing. 

Karl.    Not  tell  papa  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.    No. 

Karl.     Why  not  tell  papa  ? 


192  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 


Mrs.  Bauer.     Because 

Karl.     Yes,  mama? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Because  he  was  arrested  yesterday. 

Karl.     [Shocked.]     What  for,  mama  ?     Why  was  he 

Mrs.  Bauer.     For  nothing.  ...     It  was  all  a  lie. 

Karl.     Well — what  was  it,  mama  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     The  cat  got  hurt  in  the  dumb-waiter — papa 
didn't  mean  to — then  they  saw  papa  chasin'  it — then  it  died. 

Karl.     Why  did  papa  chase  it  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     To  see  how  it  hurt  itself. 

Karl.     Whose  cat  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     The  stray  cat. 

Karl.     The  little  black  cat .?     Is  Blacky  dead.? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Yes,  he  died  on  the  sidewalk. 

Karl.     Where  was  we  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     You  was  at  school. 

Karl.     Papa  didn't  want  us  to  keep  Blacky. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     So  many  cats  and  dogs  around.  .  .  . 

Fritzi.     [Wailing  at  the  door.]     Blacky  was  my  cat. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     S-s-h !     What  do  you  know  about  Blacky  ? 

Fritzi.     I  was  listening.     Why  did  papa  kill  Blacky  ? 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Hush ! 

Fritzi.     Why  was  papa  took  to  jail .'' 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Fritzi !     If  papa  was  to  hear  .  .  . 

[Mrs.  Bauer  goes  out. 

Fritzi.     [Sidling  up  to  Karl.]     Miau  !    Miau ! 

Karl.     You  shut  up  that.     Didn't  mama  tell  you? 

Fritzi.     When  I'm  a  man  I'm  going  to  get  arrested.     I'll 
shoot  Henny  Nies. 

Karl.     [Contemptuously.]     Yes,  you'll  do  a  lot  of  shooting. 
[Fritzi  punches  ICarl  in  back. 

Karl.     [Striking  at  Fritzi.]     You're  as  big  a  tough  as  Henny 
Nies. 

Fritzi.     [Proud  of  this  alleged  likeness.]     I'm  going  to  be  a 


THE    LAST    STRAW  19S 

man  just  like  my  father;  I'll  holler  and  make  them  stand  around. 
Karl.     [With  conviction.]     What  you  need  is  a  good  licking. 

[Telephone  rings ;  Karl  goes  to  it. 
Karl.     No,  ma'am,  we're  just  going  to  eat  now. 
Fritzi.     [Sits  down  beside  the  table.]     Blacky  was  a  nice  cat; 
she  purred  just  like  a  steam-engine. 

Karl.     Mama  told  you  not  to  bring  her  in. 
Fritzi.     Papa  said  I  could. 

[There  is  the  sound  of  footfalls.     Bauer  and  his  wife  come 
in  and  close  the  door  behind  them. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     [Putting  the  dinner  on  the  table.]     Come,  chil- 
dren.    [To  Bauer.]     Sit  down,  Fritz. 

[She  serves  the  dinner.     Karl  pulls  Fritzi  out  of  his  father*  s 

chair  and  pushes  him  into  his  own  ;  then  he  takes  his  place 

next  to  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [To  Bauer,  who  sits  looking  at  his  food.]    Eat 

somethin',  Friedrich.  [She  sits  down, 

Bauer.     I  can't  eat  nothin'.     I'm  full  up  to  here. 

[He  touches  his  throat. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     If  you  haven't  done  nothin'  wrong,  why  do 
you  let  it  worry  you  so  ? 

[Children  are  absorbed  in  eating. 
Fritzi.     [Suddenly.]     Gee,  didn't  Blacky  like  liver ! 
[Mrs.  Bauer  and  Karl  look  at  him  warningly. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     [Fiercely.]     You  eat  your  dinner. 
Bauer.     [Affectionately,   laying  his  hand  on  Fritzi's   arm.] 
Fritzi. 

Fritzi.     [Points  toward  the  inner  room.]     I'm  going  to  have  a 
gun,  too,  when  I'm  a  man. 

[Bavbr  follows  Fritzi's  gesture  and  falls  to  musing.     There 
is  a  look  of  brooding  misery  on  his  face.     Karl  nudges 
Fritzi    warningly    and    watches    his   father  furtively. 
Bauer  sits  motionless,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     [To  Bauer.]     Now  drink  your  coflFee. 


194  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

Bauer.  Don't  you  see,  Miene,  don't  you  see  ?  .  .  .  Nothing 
makes  it  right  now;  no  one  believes  me — no  one  beheves  me — 
no  one. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     What  do  you  care,  if  you  didn't  do  it  ? 

Bauer.     I  care  like  hell. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [With  a  searching  look  at  her  hushand.]  Fritzi, 
when  you  go  on  like  this,  people  won't  believe  you  didn't  do  it. 
You  ought  to  act  like  you  don't  care  .  .  .  [She  fixes  him  with  a 
beseeching  glance.]    If  you  didn't  do  it. 

[Bauer  looks  at  his  wife  as  though  a  hidden  meaning  to  her 
words  had  suddenly  bitten  into  his  mind. 

Bauer.  [As  though  to  himself.]  A  man  can't  stand  that. 
I've  gone  hungry  .  .  .  I've  been  in  the  hospital  .  .  .  I've 
worked  when  I  couldn't  stand  up  hardly.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Coaxingly.]  Drink  your  coffee,  drink  it  now, 
Fritz,  while  it's  hot. 

[He  tries  to  swallow  a  little  coffee  and  then  puts  down  the  cup. 

Bauer.     I've  never  asked  favors  of  no  man. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     Well,  an'  if  you  did  .  .  . 

Bauer.     I've  always  kept  my  good  name  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bauer.  If  a  man  hasn't  done  no  thin'  wrong  it  don't 
matter.     Just  go  ahead  like  always — if 

Bauer.     [Muttering.]    If — if 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [To  the  boys.]  Get  your  caps  now,  it's  time 
to  go  to  school. 

[Karl  gets  up,  parses  behind  his  father  and  beckons  to 
Fritzi  to  follow  him. 

Fritzi.     [Keeping  his  seat.]     Do  we  have  to  go  to  school  ? 

Bauer.     [Suddenly  alert.]     Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Fritzi.     The  boys 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [Breaking  in.]    Fritzi ! 

[The  boys  go  into  the  inner  room.    Bauer  collapses  again. 

Mrs.  Bauer.  [Looking  at  him  strangely.]  Fritzi — if  you 
didn't 


THE    LAST    STRAW  195 

Bauer.  I  can't  prove  nothing — and  no  one  believes  me.  [A 
pause.  She  is  silent  under  his  gaze.]  No  one  !  [He  waits  for  her 
to  speak.  She  sits  vnth  averted  face.  He  sinks  into  a  dull  misery. 
The  expression  in  his  eyes  changes  from  beseeching  to  despair  as  her 
silence  continue,  and  he  cries  out  hoarsely.]  No  one !  Even  if 
you  kill  a  cat— -what's  a  cat  against  a  man's  life ! 

IVIrs.  Bauer,  [Tensely,  her  eyes  fastened  on  his.]  But  you 
didn't  kill  it  ? 

[A  pay^se. 
Mrs.  Bauer.     [In  a  low,  appealing  voice.]    Did  you,  Fritz.'* 
Did  you  ? 

[Bauer  gets  up  slowly.     He  stands  very  still  and  stares  at 
his  wife. 
Karl's  Voice.     Mama,  Fritzi's  fooling  with  papa's  gun. 

[Both  children  ru^h  into  the  room. 
Karl.     You  oughtai  lock  it  up. 

Mrs.  Bauer.     [To  Fritzi.]     Bad  boy !     [To  Karl.]    Fritzi 
wants  to  kill  himself — that's  what.     Go  on  to  school. 
[Boys  run  past  area. 
Voices.     Who  killed  the  cat !    Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[At  the  sound  of  the  voices  the  boys  start  back.  Instinctively 
Mrs.  Bauer  lays  a  protecting  hand  on  each.  She  looks 
around  at  her  husband  with  a  sudden  anxiety  which  she 
tries  to  conceal  from  the  children,  who  whisper  together. 
Bauer  rises  heavily  to  his  feet  and  walks  staggeringly 
toward  the  inner  room. 
Mrs.  Bauer.  [In  a  worried  tone,  as  she  pushes  the  children 
out.]     Go  on  to  school. 

[At  the  threshold  of  the  inner  room  Bauer  stops,  half  turns 
back  with  distorted  features,  and  then  hurries  in.  The 
door  slams  behind  him.  Mrs.  Bauer  closes  the  outer 
door,  turns,  takes  a  step  as  though  to  follow  Bauer,  hesi' 
tates,  then  crosses  to  the  kitchen  table  and  starts  to  clear 


196  BOSWORTH    CROCKER 

up  the  dishes.     The  report  of  a  revolver  sounds  from  the 
inner  room.     Terror-stricken,  Mrs.  Bauer  rushes  in. 
Mrs.  Bauer's  Voice.     Fritz  !    Fritz  !     Speak  to  me !     Look 
at  me,  Fritz  !     You  didn't  do  it,  Fritz  !     I  know  you  didn't  do  it ! 
[Sound  of  low  sobbing.  .  .  .     After  a  few  seconds  the  tele- 
phone bell.  ...     It  rings  continuously  while  the  Curtain 
slowly  falls. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

(A  Bisque-Play) 

BY 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 


Manikin  and  Minikin  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Alfre<J 
Kreymborg.  All  rights  reserved.  For  permission  to  perform,  address 
Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  New  Jersey. 


ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

Alfred  Kreymborg,  one  of  the  foremost  advocates  of  free- 
verse  rhythmical  drama,  was  born  in  New  York  City,  1883. 
He  founded  and  edited  The  Globe  while  it  was  in  existence;  and 
under  its  auspices  issued  the  first  anthology  of  imagist  verse 
(Ezra  Pound's  Collection,  1914).  In  July.  1915,  he  founded 
Others,  a  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  and  The  Other  Players  in 
March,  1918,  an  organization  devoted  exclusively  to  American 
plays  in  poetic  form.  At  present  Mr.  Kreymborg  is  in  Italy, 
launching  a  new  international  magazine,  The  Broom. 

Mr.  Kreymborg  has  been  active  in  both  poetry  and  drama. 
He  has  edited  several  anthologies  of  free  verse,  and  has  pub- 
lished his  own  free  verse  as  Mushrooms  and  The  Blood  of  Things. 
His  volume  of  plays,  all  in  free  rhythmical  verse,  is  Plays  for 
Poem — Mimes.  The  most  popular  plays  in  this  volume  are 
Lima  Beans,  and  Manikin  and  Minikin. 

Manikin  and  Minikin  aptly  exemplifies  Mr.  Kreymborg's 
idea  of  rhythmical,  pantomimic  drama.  It  is  a  semi-puppet 
play  in  which  there  are  dancing  automatons  to  an  accompani- 
ment of  rhythmic  lines  in  place  of  music.  Mr.  Kreymborg  is 
a  skilled  musician  and  he  composes  his  lines  with  musical  rhythm 
in  mind.    His  lines  should  be  read  accordingly. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

(A  BISQUE-PLAY) 

Seen  through  an  oval  frame,  one  of  the  walls  of  a  parlor.  The  wall- 
paper is  a  conventionalized  pattern.  Only  the  shelf  of  the  man- 
telpiece shows.  At  each  end,  seated  on  pedestals  turned  slightly 
away  from  one  another,  two  aristocratic  bisque  figures,  a  boy 
in  delicate  cerise  and  a  girl  in  cornflower  blue.  Their  shadows 
join  in  a  grotesque  silhouette.  In  the  centre,  an  ancient  clock 
whose  tick  acts  as  the  metronome  for  the  sound  of  their  high 
voices.  Presently  the  mouths  of  the  figures  open  and  shut, 
after  the  mode  of  ordinary  conversation. 

She.     Manikin ! 

He.     Minikin  ? 

She.    That  fool  of  a  servant  has  done  it  again. 

He.     I  should  say,  she's  more  than  a  fool. 

She.     a  meddlesome  busybody 

He.     a  brittle-fingered  noddy  ! 

She.     Which  way  are  you  looking  ?    What  do  you  see  ? 
He.     The  everlasting  armchair, 
the  everlasting  tiger-skin, 
the  everlasting  yellow,  green,  and  purple  books, 

the  everlasting  portrait  of  milord 

She.     Oh,  these  Yankees ! — And  I  see 

the  everlasting  rattan  rocker, 

the  everlasting  samovar, 

the  everlasting  noisy  piano, 

the  everlasting  portrait  of  milady 
He.     Simpering  spectacle ! 

201 


202  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

She.     What  does  she  want,  always  dusting  ? 
He.     I  should  say — 

that  is,  I'd  consider  the  thought 

She.     You'd  consider  a  lie — 

oh.  Manikin — 

you're  trying  to  defend  her ! 

He.     I'm  not  defending  her 

She.     You're  trying  to 

He.     I'm  not  trying  to 

She.     Then,  what  are  you  trying  to 

He.     Well,  I'd  venture  to  say, 

if  she'd  only  stay  away  some  morning 
She.     That's  what  I  say  in  my  dreams  ! 

He.     She  and  her  broom 

She.     Her  everlasting  broom 

He.     She  wouldn't  be  sweeping 

She.     Every  corner,  every  cranny,  every  crevice— 

He.     And  the  dust  wouldn't  move 

She.     Wouldn't  crawl,  wouldn't  rise,  wouldn't  fly- 

He.     And  cover  us  all  over 

She.     Like  a  spider-web — ugh ! 

He.     Everlasting  dust  has  been  most  of  our  life — 

She.     Everlasting  years  and  years  of  dust ! 

He.     You  on  your  lovely  blue  gown 

She.     And  you  on  j^our  manly  pink  cloak. 
He.     If  she  didn't  sweep,  we  wouldn't  need 

dusting 

She.     Nor  need  taking  down,  I  should  say 

He.     With  her  stupid,  clumsy  hands 

She.     Her  crooked,  monkey  paws 

He.     And  we  wouldn't  need  putting  back 

She.     I  with  my  back  to  you 

He.     I  with  my  back  to  you. 

She.     It's  been  hours,  days,  weeks 


MANIKIN    AND    MINIKIN  203 


by  the  sound  of  that  everlastmg  clock- 


and  the  coming  of  day  and  the  going  of  day 

since  I  saw  you  last ! 
He.     What's  the  use  of  the  sun 

with  its  butterfly  wings  of  light — 
what's  the  use  of  a  sun  made  to  see  by — 
if  I  can't  see  you  ! 
She.     Manikin ! 
He.     Minikin  ? 
She.     Say  that  again  ! 
He.     Why  should  I  say  it  again — don't  you  know? 

She.     I  know,  but  sometimes  I  doubt 

He.     Why  do  you,  what  do  you  doubt.? 
She.     Please  say  it  again  ! 

He.     What's  the  use  of  a  sun 

She.     What's  the  use  of  a  sun  ? 

He.     That  was  made  to  see  by 

She.     That  was  made  to  see  by  ? 

He.     If  I  can't  see  you ! 

She.     Oh,  Manikin ! 

He.     Minikin  ? 

She.     If  you  hadn't  said  that  again, 

my  doubt  would  have  filled  a  balloon. 
He.     Your  doubt — which  doubt,  what  doubt  ? 
She.     And  although  I  can't  move, 

although  I  can't  move  unless  somebody  shoves  me, 

one  of  these  days  when  the  sun  isn't  here, 

I  would  have  slipped  over  the  edge 

of  this  everlasting  shelf 

He.     Minikin ! 

She.     And  fallen  to  that  everlasting  floor 

into  so  many  fragments, 

they'd  never  paste  Minikin  together  again  ! 
He.     Minikin,  Minikin ! 


204  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

She.    They'd  have  to  set  another  here — 

some  Minikin,  I'm  assured  ! 
He.     Why  do  you  chatter  so,  prattle  so  ? 
She.     Because  of  my  doubt — 

because  I'm  as  positive  as  I  am 

that  I  sit  here  with  my  knees  in  a  knot — 

that  that  human  creature — loves  you. 
He.     Loves  me  ? 
She.     And  you  her ! 
He.     Minikin ! 

She.     When  she  takes  us  down  she  holds  you  much  longer. 
He.    Minikin ! 
She.     I'm  sufficiently  feminine — 

and  certainly  old  enough — 

I  and  my  hundred  and  seventy  years — 

I  can  see,  I  can  feel 

by  her  manner  of  touching  me 

and  her  flicking  me  with  her  mop — 

the  creature  hates  me — 

she'd  like  to  drop  me,  that's  what  she  would  ! 
He.     Minikin ! 
She.     Don't  you  venture  defending  her ! 

Booby — you  don't  know  live  women  ! 

When  I'm  in  the  right  position 

I  can  note  how  she  fondles  you, 

pets  you  like  a  parrot  with  her  finger-tip, 

blows  a  pinch  of  dust  from  your  eye 

with  her  softest  breath, 

holds  you  off  at  arm's  length 

and  fixes  you  with  her  spider  look, 

actually  holds  you  against  her  cheek — 

her  rose-tinted  cheek — 

before  she  releases  you  ! 

If  she  didn't  turn  us  apart  so  often. 


MANIKIN    AND    MINIKIN  205 

I  wouldn't  charge  her  with  insinuation; 

but  now  I  know  she  loves  you — 

she's  as  jealous  as  I  am — 

and  poor  dead  me  in  her  live  power ! 

Manikin  ? 
He.    Minikin  ? 
She.     If  you  could  see  me — 

the  way  you  see  her 

He.     But  I  see  you — 
see  you  always — 
see  only  you ! 
She.    If  you  could  see  me 

the  way  you  see  her, 

you'd  still  love  me, 

you'd  love  me  the  way  you  do  her ! 

Who  made  me  what  I  am  ? 

Who  dreamed  me  in  motionless  clay  ? 
He.     Minikin  ? 
She.     Manikin  ? 
He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.    No! 

He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.    No. 

He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.    Yes. 

He.     I  love  you 

She.    No! 

He.    I've  always  loved  you — — 

She.    No. 

He.     You  doubt  that.? 

She.    Yes ! 

He.     You  doubt  that  ? 

She.    Yes. 

He.     You  doubt  that? 


206  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

She.     No. 

You've  always  loved  me — 

yes— 

but  you  don't  love  me  now — 

no — 

not  since  that  rose-face  encountered  your  glance — 

no. 
He.    Minikin ! 
She.     If  I  could  move  about  the  way  she  can — 

if  I  had  feet — 

dainty  white  feet  which  could  twinkle  and  twirl — 

I'd  dance  you  so  prettily 

you'd  think  me  a  sun  butterfly — 

if  I  could  let  dov/n  my  hair 

and  prove  you  it's  longer  than  larch  hair — 

if  I  could  raise  my  black  brows 

or  shrug  my  narrow  shoulders, 

like  a  queen  or  a  countess — 

if  I  could  turn  my  head,  tilt  my  head, 

this  way  and  that,  like  a  swan — 

ogle  my  eyes,  like  a  peacock, 

till  you'd  marvel, 

they're  green,  nay,  violet,  nay,  yellow,  nay,  gold — 

if  I  could  move,  only  move 

just  the  moment  of  an  inch — 

you  would  see  what  I  could  be  ! 

It's  a  change,  it's  a  change, 

you  men  ask  of  women  ! 
He.     a  change  ? 
She.     You're  eye-sick,  heart-sick 

of  seeing  the  same  foolish  porcelain  thing, 

a  hundred  years  old, 

a  hundred  and  fifty, 

and  sixty,  and  seventy — 


MANIKIN    AND    MINIKIN  207 

I  don't  know  how  old  I  am  ! 
He.     Not  an  exhalation  older  than  I — 

not  an  inhalation  younger  ! 

Minikin  ? 
She.     Manikin  ? 
He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.     No  ! 

He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.     No  ! 

He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
She.     Yes. 

He.     I  don't  love  that  creature 

She.     You  do. 


He.     I  can't  love  that  creature 

She.     You  can. 

He.     Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 

She.    Yes — 

if  you'll  tell  me — 

if  you'll  prove  me — 

so  my  last  particle  of  dust — 

the  tiniest  speck  of  a  molecule — 

the  merest  electron 

He.     Are  you  listening  ? 

She.    Yes ! 

He.     To  begin  with — 

I  dislike,  suspect,  deplore — 
I  had  best  say,  feel  compassion 
for  what  is  called  humanity — 
or  the  animate,  as  opposed  to  the  inanimate- 
She.     You  say  that  so  wisely — 

you're  such  a  philosopher — 
say  it  again ! 
He.     That  which  is  able  to  move 

can  never  be  steadfast,  you  understand  ? 


208  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

Let  us  consider  the  creature  at  hand 

to  whom  you  have  referred 

with  an  undue  excess  of  admiration 

adulterated  with  an  undue  excess  of  envy 

She.     Say  that  again  ! 
He.     To  begin  with — 

I  can  only  see  part  of  her  at  once. 

She  moves  into  my  vision ; 

she  moves  out  of  my  vision; 

she  is  doomed  to  be  wayward. 

She.     Yes,  but  that  which  you  see  of  her 

He.     Is  ugly,  commonplace,  unsightly. 

Her  face  a  rose-face  ? 

It's  veined  with  blood  and  the  skin  of  it  wrinkles- 

her  eyes  are  ever  so  near  to  a  hen's — 

her  movements, 

if  one  would  pay  such  a  gait  with  regard — 

her  gait  is  unspeakably  ungainly — 

her  hair 

She.    Her  hair  ? 

He.    Luckily  I've  never  seen  it  down — 

I  dare  say  it  comes  down  in  the  dark, 

when  it  looks,  most  assuredly,  like  tangled  weeds. 
She.     Again,  Manikin,  that  dulcet  phrase ! 
He.    Even  were  she  beautiful, 

she  were  never  so  beautiful  as  thou ! 
She.    Now  you're  a  poet.  Manikin  ! 
He.     Even  were  she  so  beautiful  as  thou — 

lending  her  your  eyes, 

and  the  exquisite  head  which  holds  them — 

like  a  cup  two  last  beads  of  wine, 

like  a  stone  two  last  drops  of  rain, 

green,  nay,  violet,  nay,  yellow,  nay,  gold 

She.    Faster,  Manikin ! 


MANIKIN    AND    MINIKIN  209 

He.     I  can't,  Minikin  ! 

Words  were  never  given  to  man 

to  phrase  such  a  one  as  you  are — 

inanimate  symbols 

can  never  embrace,  embody,  hold 

the  animate  dream  that  you  are — 

I  must  cease. 
She.     Manikin ! 
He.     And  even  were  she  so  beautiful  as  thou, 

she  couldn't  stay  beautiful. 
She.     Stay  beautiful  ? 
He.     Humans  change  with  each  going  moment. 

That  is  a  gray-haired  platitude. 

Just  as  I  can  see  that  creature 

only  when  she  touches  my  vision, 

so  I  could  only  see  her  once,  were  she  beautiful — 

at  best,  twice  or  thrice — 

you're  more  precious  than  when  you  came  ! 
She.     And  you ! 
He.     Human  pathos  penetrates  still  deeper 

when  one  determines  their  inner  life, 

as  we've  pondered  their  outer. 

Their  inner  changes  far  more  desperately. 
She.     How  so,  wise  Manikin  ? 
He.     They  have  what  philosophy  terms  moods, 

and  moods  are  more  pervious  to  modulation 

than  pools  to  idle  breezes. 

These  people  may  say,  to  begin  with — 

I  love  you. 

This  may  be  true,  I'm  assured — 

as  true  as  when  we  say,  I  love  you. 

But  they  can  only  say, 

I  love  you, 

so  long  as  the  mood  breathes. 


210  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

so  long  as  the  breezes  blow, 

so  long  as  water  remains  wet. 

They  are  honest — 

they  mean  what  they  say — 

passionately,  tenaciously,  tragically — 

but  when  the  mood  languishes, 

they  have  to  say, 

if  it  be  they  are  honest — 

I  do  not  love  you. 

Or  they  have  to  say, 

I  love  you, 

to  somebody  else. 
She.     To  somebody  else  ? 
He.     Now,  you  and  I — 

we've  said  that  to  each  other — 

we've  had  to  say  it 

for  a  hundred  and  seventy  years — 

and  we'll  have  to  say  it  always. 
She.    Say  always  again ! 
He.     The  life  of  an  animate — 
She.     Say  always  again ! 
He.    Always ! 

The  life  of  an  animate 

is  a  procession  of  deaths 

with  but  a  secret  sorrowing  candle, 

guttering  lower  and  lower, 

on  the  path  to  the  grave — 

the  life  of  an  inanimate 

is  as  serenely  enduring — 

as  all  still  things  are. 
She.     Still  things.? 
He.     Recall  our  childhood  in  the  English  museum- 

ere  we  were  moved, 

from  place  to  place, 

to  this  dreadful  Yankee  salon — 


MANIKIN    AND    MINIKIN  211 

do  you  remember 

that  little  old  Greek  tanagra 

of  the  girl  with  a  head  like  a  bud-- 

that  little  old  Roman  medallion 

of  the  girl  with  a  head  like  a 

She.     Manikin,  Manikin — 

were  they  so  beautiful  as  I — 
did  you  love  them,  too — 
why  do  3^ou  bring  them  back  ? 
He.     They  were  not  so  beautiful  as  thou — 

I  spoke  of  them — 

recalled,  designated  them — 

well,  because  they  were  ages  old — 

and — and 

She.     And — and  ? 

He.     And  we  might  live  as  long  as  they — 

as  they  did  and  do  ! 

I  hinted  their  existence 

because  they're  not  so  beautiful  as  thou, 

so  that  by  contrast  and  deduction 

She.     And  deduction  ? 

He.     You  know  what  I'd  say 

She.     But  say  it  again  ! 

He.     I  love  you. 

She.     Manikin  ? 

He.     Mmikm.?^ 

She.     Then  even  though  that  creature  has  turned  us 

apart, 

can  you  see  me  ? 
He.     I  can  see  you. 
She.     Even  though  you  haven't  seen  me 

for  hours,  days,  weeks — 

with  your  dear  blue  eyes — 

you  can  see  me — 

with  your  hidden  ones  ? 


212  ALFRED    KREYMBORG 

He.     I  can  see  you. 

She.     Even  though  you  are  still, 

and  calm,  and  smooth, 

and  lovely  outside — 

you  aren't  still  and  calm 

and  smooth  and  lovely  inside  ? 
He.     Lovely,  yes — 

but  not  still  and  calm  and  smooth ! 
She.     Which  way  are  you  looking  ?    What  do  you  see  ? 
He.     I  look  at  you. 

I  see  you. 
She.    And  if  that  fool  of  a  servant — 

oh,  Manikin — 

suppose  she  should  break  the  future — 

our  great,  happy  centuries  ahead — 

by  dropping  me,  throwing  me  down  ? 
He.     I  should  take  an  immediate  step 

off  this  everlasting  shelf 

She.     But  you  cannot  move  ! 

He.     The  good  wind  would  give  me  a  blow ! 

She.     Now  you're  a  punster  ! 

And  what  would  your  fragments  do  ? 
He.     They  would  do  what  Manikin  did. 
She.     Say  that  again ! 
He.     They'd  do  what  Manikin  did.  .  .  . 
She.     Manikin  ? 
He.     Minikin? 

She.     Shall  I  tell  you  something  ? 
He.     Tell  me  something. 
She.     Are  you  listening  ? 
He.     With  my  inner  ears. 

She.     I  wasn't  jealous  of  that  woman 

He.     You  weren't  jealous  ? 

She.     I  wanted  to  hear  you  talk 

He.     You  wanted  to  hear  me  talk  ? 


MANIKIN    AND     MINIKIN  213 

She.     You  talk  so  wonderfully ! 

He.     Do  I,  indeed  ?     What  a  booby  I  am ! 

She.     And  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say 

He.     You  cheat,  you  idler,  you 

She.     Woman 

He.     Dissembler ! 
She.     Manikin  ? 
He.     Minikin  ? 
She.     Everlastingly  ? 
He.    Everlastingly. 
She.     Say  it  again ! 

He.     I  refuse 

She.     You  refuse  ? 

He.     Well 

She.     Well.? 

He.     You  have  ears  outside  your  head — 

I'll  say  that  for  you — 

but  they'll  never  hear — 

what  your  other  ears  hear ! 
She.    Say  it — 

down  one  of  the  ears — 
outside  my  head  ? 
He.     I  refuse. 
She.     You  refuse  ? 
He.     Leave  me  alone. 
She.     Manikin  ? 
He.     I  can't  say  it ! 
She.     Manikin ! 

[The  clock  goes  on  ticking  for  a  moment.     Its  mellow  chimes 
strike  the  hour. 

CURTAIN 


WHITE  DRESSES 

(A  Tragedy  of  Negro  Life) 

BY 

PAUL  GREENE 


White  Dresses  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Professor  Frederick 
H.  Koch.  Copyrighted  by  the  CaroUna  Playmakers,  Inc.,  Chapel  Hill, 
North  Carolina.  For  permission  to  produce,  address  Frederick  H. 
Koch,  director. 


PAUL  GREENE 

Paul  Greene,  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the  University  of 
North  Carolina  Playmakers,  was  born  in  1894  on  a  farm  near 
Lillington,  North  Carolina.  He  has  received  his  education  at 
Buies  Creek  Academy  and  at  the  University  of  North  Carolina, 
from  which  he  received  his  bachelor's  degree  in  1921.  He  saw 
service  with  the  A.  E.  F.  in  France,  with  the  105th  United  States 
Engineers. 

In  addition  to  White  Dresses,  Mr.  Greene  has  written  a  num- 
ber of  one-act  plays:  The  Last  of  the  Lowries  (to  be  included  in  a 
forthcoming  volume  of  Carolina  Folk-Plays,  published  by  Henry 
Holt  &  Company),  The  Miser,  The  Old  Man  of  Edenton,  The 
Lord's  Will,  Wreck  P'int,  Granny  Boling  (in  The  Drama  for  Au- 
gust-September, 1921).  The  first  three  plays  named  above 
were  produced  originally  by  the  Carolina  Playmakers  at  Chapel 
HiU. 

White  Dresses  is  an  excellent  example  of  folk-play  of  North 
Carolina.  This  play  was  written  in  English  31,  the  course  in 
dramatic  composition  at  the  University  of  North  Carolina  con- 
ducted by  Professor  Frederick  H.  Koch.  "  The  Aim  of  the  Caro- 
lina Playmakers,"  says  Professor  Koch,  "is  to  build  up  a  genu- 
inely native  drama,  a  fresh  expression  of  the  folk-life  in  North 
Carolina,  drawn  from  the  rich  background  of  local  tradition  and 
from  the  vigorous  new  life  of  the  present  day.  In  these  simple 
plays  we  hope  to  contribute  something  of  lasting  value  in  the 
making  of  a  new  folk-theatre  and  a  new  folk-literature." 

Out  of  the  many  conflicts  of  American  life,  past  and  present, 
Mr.  Greene  sees  possibilities  for  a  great  native  drama.  White 
Dresses  presents  a  fundamental  aspect  of  the  race  problem  in 
America. 


CHARACTERS 

Candace  McLean,  an  old  negro  woman.  Mart's  aunt 
Mary  McLean,  a  quadroon  girl,  niece  of  Candace 
Jim  Matthews,  Mary's  lover 
Henry  Morgan,  the  landlord,  a  white  man 


WHITE  DRESSES 

TIME:  The  evening  before  ChriHmas,  1900. 

SCENE :  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  negro  cabin,  the  home  of  Candacb 
and  Mary  McLean,  in  eastern  North  Carolina. 

In  the  right  corner  of  the  room  i^  a  rough  bed  covered  with  a  ragged 
counterpane.  In  the  centre  at  the  rear  is  an  old  bureau  with  a 
cracked  mirror,  to  the  left  of  it  a  door  opening  to  the  outside. 
In  the  left  wall  is  a  window  with  red  curtains.  A  large  chest 
stands  near  the  front  on  this  side,  and  above  it  hang  the  family 
clothes,  several  ragged  dresses,  an  old  bonnet,  and  a  cape.  At 
the  right,  toward  the  front,  is  a  fireplace,  in  which  a  small  fire 
is  burning.  Above  and  at  the  sides  of  the  fireplace  hang  sev- 
eral pots  and  pans,  neatly  arranged.  Above  these  is  a  mxintel, 
covered  with  a  lambrequin  of  dingy  red  crape  paper.  On  the 
mxintel  are  bottles  and  a  clock.  A  picture  of  '"'Daniel  in  the 
Lions  Den''  hangs  above  the  mantel.  The  walls  are  covered 
tcith  newspapers,  to  which  are  pinned  several  illustratioTis 
clipped  from  popular  magazines.  A  rough  table  is  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  A  lamp  loithout  a  chimney  is  on  it.  Sev- 
eral chairs  are  about  the  room.  A  rocking-chair  with  a  rag 
pillow  in  it  stands  near  the  fire.  There  is  an  air  of  cleanliness 
and  poverty  about  the  whole  room. 

The  rising  of  the  curtain  discloses  the  empty  room.  The  fire  is 
burning  dimly.  Aunt  Candace  enters  at  the  rear,  carrying 
several  sticks  of  firewood  under  one  arm.  She  walks  with  a 
stick,  and  is  bent  with  rheumatism..  She  is  dressed  in  a  slat 
bonnet,  which  hides  her  face  in  its  shadow,  brogan  shoes,  a 
£19 


220  PAUL    GREENE 

maris  ragged  coat,  a  checkered  apron,  a  dark-colored  dress. 
She  mumbles  to  herself  and  shakes  her  head  as  she  comes  in. 
With  great  difficulty  she  puts  the  wood  on  the  fire,  and  then 
takes  the  poker  and  examines  some  potatoes  that  are  cooking 
in  the  ashes.  She  takes  out  her  snuff-box  and  puts  snuff  in 
her  lip.  As  she  does  this  her  bonnet  is  pushed  back,  and  in 
the  firelight  her  features  are  discernible — sunken  eyes,  high 
cheek-bones,  and  big,  fiat  nose.  Upon  her  forehead  she  wears 
a  pair  of  steel-rimmed  spectacles. 

She  sits  down  in  a  rocking-chair,  now  and  then  putting  her  hand  to 
her  head,  and  groaning  as  if  in  pain.  She  turns  and  looks 
expectantly  toward  the  door.  After  a  moment  she  hobbles  to 
the  chest  on  the  right  and  takes  out  an  old  red  crocheted  fascina- 
tor.  Skivering  she  uyraps  it  around  her  neck  and  stands  look- 
ing down  in  the  chest.  She  lifts  out  a  little  black  box  and  starts 
to  unfasten  it,  when  the  door  suddenly  opens  and  Mart 
McLean  ccnnes  in.  Aunt  Candace  puts  the  box  hastily 
back  into  the  chest,  and  hurries  to  the  fire. 

Mary  McLean  has  a  ''turn'''  of  collards  in  one  arm  and  a  paper 
bundle  in  the  other.  She  lays  the  collards  on  the  fioor  near  the 
window  and  puts  her  shawl  on  the  bed.  She  is  a  quadroon 
girl  about  eighteen  years  old,  with  an  oval  face  and  a  mass  of 
fine  dark  hair,  neatly  done  up.  There  is  something  in  her 
hearing  tlmt  suggests  a  sort  of  refinement.  Her  dress  is  piti- 
fully shabby,  her  shoes  ragged.  But  even  this  cannot  hide  the 
lines  of  an  almost  perfect  figure.  For  a  negro  she  is  pretty. 
As  she  comes  up  to  the  fire  her  pinched  lips  and  the  tired  ex- 
pression on  her  face  are  plainly  visible.  Only  her  eyes  betray 
any  signs  of  excitement. 

Aunt  Candace.     Honey,  I's  been  a-waitin'  foh  you  de  las' 
two  hours.     My  haid's  been  bad  off.     Chile,  whah  you  been? 
Miss  Mawgin  must  a  had  a  pow'ful  washin'  up  at  de  big  house. 
[JVLvRY  opens  her  hand  and  shows  her  a  five-dollar  bill. 


WHITE    DRESSES  221 

Aunt  Candace.     De  Lawd  help  my  life,  chile ! 
Mary.     An'  look  here  what  Mr.  Henry  sent  you,  too.     [She 
undoes  the  bundle,  revealing  several  cooked  sweet  potatoes,  sausages, 
spareribs,  and  some  boiled  ham.]     He  said  as  'twas  Cliristmas 
time  he  sent  you  this  with  the  collards  there. 

[She  points  toward  the  collards  at  the  window.     Aunt  Can- 
dace  pays  little  attention  to  the  food  as  Mary  places  it 
in  her  lap,  but  continues  to  look  straight  into  Mary's 
face.     The  girl  starts  to  give  her  the  money,  but  she  pushes 
her  away. 
Aunt  Candace.     [Excitedly.]    Whah'd  you  git  dat,  honey  .f* 
Whah'd  you  git  it.''     Mr.  Henry  ain't  never  been  dat  kind  befo'. 
Dey  ain't  no  past  Christmas  times  he  was  so  free  wid  'is  money. 
He  ain't  de  kind  o'  man  foh  dat.     An'  he  a-havin'  'is  washin' 
done  on  Christmas  Eve.     [Her  look  is  direct  and  troubled.]     Chile, 
Mr.  Hugh  didn't  give  you  dat  money,  did  he .'' 

Mary.  [Still  looking  in  the  fire.]  Aunty,  I  ain't  said  Mr. 
Henry  sent  you  this  money.  Yes'm,  Mr.  Hugh  sent  it  to  you. 
I  done  some  washin'  for  him.  I  washed  his  socks  and  some 
shirts — pure  silk  they  was.  [She  smiles  at  the  remembrance.]  An' 
he  give  me  the  money  an'  tole  me  to  give  it  to  you — said  he 
wished  he  could  give  you  somethin'  more. 

[She  hands  the  money  to  Aunt  Candace,  who  takes  it 
quickly. 
Aunt  Candace.  Help  my  soul  an'  body !  De  boy  said  dat ! 
Bless  'is  soul !  He  ain't  fo'got  'is  ol'  aunty,  even  if  he  ain't  been 
to  see  'er  since  he  come  back  from  school  way  out  yander.  De 
Lawd  bless  'im !  Alius  was  a  good  boy,  an'  he  ain't  changed 
since  he  growed  up  nuther.  When  I  useter  nuss  'im  he'd  never 
whimper,  no  suh.  Bring  me  de  tin  box,  honey.  An'  don't  no- 
tice what  I's  been  sayin'.  I  spects  I's  too  perticler  'bout  you. 
I  dunno. 

[Mary  goes  to  the  bureau  and  gets  a  tin  box.     She  puts  the 
money  in  it,  returns  it,  and  lights  the  lamp.     Aunt  Can- 


2««  PAUL    GREENE 

DACB  take*  off  her  bonnet  and  hangs  it  behind  her  on  the 
rocking-chair.  Then  she  begins  to  eat  greedily,  now  and 
then  licking  the  grease  off  her  fingers.  Suddenly  she 
utters  a  low  scream,  putting  her  hands  to  her  head  and 
rocking  to  and  fro.  She  grasps  her  stick  and  begins  beat- 
ing  about  her  as  if  striking  at  something,  crying  out  in  a 
loud  voice. 
Aunt  Candace.     Ah-hah,  I'll  git  you !    I'll  git  you ! 

[Mary  goes  to  her  and  pats  her  on  the  cheek. 
Mary.     It's  your  poor  head,  ain't  it,  aunty  ?     You  rest  easy, 
I'll  take  care  of  you.     [She  continues  to  rub  her  cheek  and  forehead 
until  the  spell  passes.]     Set  still  till  I  git  in  a  turn  of  light-wood. 
It's  goin'  to  be  a  terrible  cold  night  an*  looks  like  snow. 

[After  a  moment  Aunt  Candace  quiets  down  and  begins 
eating  again.  Mary  goes  out  and  brings  in  an  armful 
of  wood,  which  she  throws  into  the  box.  She  takes  a  bot- 
tle and  spoon  from  the  mantel,  and  starts  to  pour  out  some 
medicine.  '■ 

Aunt  Candace.  I's  better  now,  honey.  Put  it  back  up.  I 
ain't  gwine  take  none  now.  D'ain't  no  use  .  .  .  d'ain't  no  use 
in  dat.  I  ain't  long  foh  dis  world,  ain't  long.  I's  done  my  las* 
washin'  an'  choppin'  an'  weighed  up  my  las'  cotton.  Medicine 
ain't  no  mo'  good. 

Mary.     You're  alius  talkin'  like  that,  aunty.     You're  goin' 

to  live  to  be  a  hundred.     An'  this  medicine 

Aunt  Candace.  I  ain't  gwine  take  it,  I  say.  No,  suh,  ain't 
gwine  be  long.  I's  done  deef.  I's  ol'  an'  hipshot  now.  No, 
suh,  I  don't  want  no  medicine.  [Childishly.]  I's  got  a  taste  o' 
dese  heah  spareribs  an'  sausages,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  take  no  medi- 
cine. [Mary  puts  the  bottle  and  spoon  back  on  the  mantel  and  sits 
down.  Aunt  Candace  stops  eating  and  looks  at  Mary's  dream- 
ing face.]  Honey,  what  makes  you  look  like  dat?  [Excitedly.] 
Mr.  Henry  ain't  said  ...  he  ain't  said  no  mo'  'bout  us  havin' 
to  leave,  has  he  ? 


WHITE    DRESSES  223 

Mart.  [Looking  up  confusedly.]  No'm,  he  .  .  .  no'm,  he 
said  ...  he  said  to-day  that  he'd  'bout  decided  to  let  us  stay 
right  on  as  long  as  we  please. 

Aunt  Candace.     Huh,  what's  dat  ? 

Mary.  He  said  it  might  be  so  we  could  stay  right  on  as  long 
as  we  please. 

Aunt  Candace.  [Joyously.]  Thank  de  Lawd !  Thank  de 
Lawd !  I  knowed  he's  gwine  do  it.  I  knowed.  But  I's  been 
pow'ful  feared,  chile,  he's  gwine  run  us  off.  An*  he  ain't  never 
liked  Mr.  Hugh's  takin'  up  foh  us.  But  now  I  c'n  rest  in  peace. 
Thank  de  Lawd,  I's  gwine  rest  my  bones  rat  whah  I  loves  to 
stay  till  dey  calls  foh  me  up  yander.  [Stopping.]  Has  you  et  ? 
Mary.  Yes'm,  I  et  up  at  Mr.  Henry's.  Mr.  Hugh  .  .  . 
[hesitating]  he  said  'twas  a  shame  for  me  to  come  off  without 
eatin'  nothin'  an'  so  I  et. 

[Aunt  Candace  becomes  absorbed  in  her  eating.  Mart 
goes  to  the  chest,  opens  it,  and  takes  out  a  faded  cloak  and 
puts  it  on.  Then  she  goes  to  the  bureau,  takes  out  a  piece 
of  white  ribbon,  and  ties  it  on  her  hair.  For  a  moment 
she  looks  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror.  She  goes  to  the 
chest  and  stands  looking  down  in  it.  She  makes  a  move- 
ment to  close  it.  The  lid  falls  with  a  bang.  Aunt  Can- 
dace turns  quickly  around. 
Aunt  Candace.  What  you  want,  gal  ?  You  ain't  botherin* 
de  li'l  box,  is  you .? 

Mary.  [Coming  back  to  the  fire.]  Botherin'  that  box !  Lord, 
no,  I  don't  worry  about  it  no  more  .  .  .  I'm  just  dressin*  up  a 
little. 

Aunt  Candace.  Ah-hah,  but  you  better  not  be  messin* 
'round  de  chist  too  much.  You  quit  puttin'  you'  clothes  in 
dere.  I  done  tol'  you.  What  you  dressin'  up  foh?  Is  Jim 
comin*  round  to-night? 

[She  wraps  up  the  remainder  of  her  supper  and  puts  it  in 
the  chimney  corner. 


224  PAUL    GREENE 

Mary.  [Not  noticing  the  question.]  Aunty,  don't  I  look  a 
little  bit  like  a  white  person  ? 

Aunt  Candace.  [Taking  out  her  snuff -box.]  Huh,  what's 
dat? 

Mary.     I  don't  look  like  a  common  nigger,  do  I  ? 

Aunt  Candace.  Lawd  bless  you,  chile,  you's  purty,  you  is, 
You's  jes'  as  purty  as  any  white  folks.  You's  lak  yo'  mammy 
what's  dead  an'  gone.  Yessuh,  you's  her  very  spit  an'  image, 
'ceptin'  you's  whiter.  [Lowering  her  voice.]  Yes,  suh,  'ceptin* 
you's  whiter.  [They  both  look  in  the  fire.]  'Bout  time  foh  Jim 
to  be  comin',  ain't  it  ? 

Mary.  Yes'm,  he'll  be  comin',  I  reckon.  They  ain't  no  git- 
tin'  away  from  him  an'  his  guitar. 

Aunt  Candace.  What  you  got  agin  Jim.^^  Dey  ain't  no 
better  nigger'n  Jim.  He's  gwine  treat  you  white,  an'  it's  time 
you's  gittin'  married.  I's  done  nussin'  my  fust  chile  at  yo'  age, 
my  li'l  Tom  'twas.  Useter  sing  to  'im.  [Pausing.]  Useter  sing 
to  'im  de  sweetest  kin'  o'  chunes,  jes'  lak  you,  honey,  jes'  lak 
you.  He's  done  daid  an' gone  do'.  All  my  babies  is.  DeMars- 
ter  he  call  an'  tuck  'em.  An'  'druther'n  let  'em  labor  an'  sweat 
below,  he  gi'n  'em  a  harp  an'  crown  up  dere.  Tuck  my  ol'  man 
from  'is  toil  an'  trouble,  too,  an'  I's  left  heah  alone  now.  Ain't 
gwine  be  long  do',  ain't  gwine  be  long.  [Her  voice  trails  off  into 
silence.  All  is  quiet  save  for  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  Aunt  Can- 
dace brushes  her  hand  across  her  facCy  as  if  breaking  the  spell  of 
her  revery.]  Yessuh,  I  wants  you  to  git  married,  honey.  I  told 
you,  an'  told  you.  We's  lived  long  enough  by  ourselves.  I's 
lak  to  nuss  yo'  li'l  uns  an'  sing  to  'em  fo'  I  go.  Mind  me  o*  de 
ol'  times. 

Mary.  [Lost  in  abstraction,  apparently  has  not  been  listening.] 
Aunty,  you  ought  to  see  him  now.  He's  better  to  me  than  he 
ever  was.  He's  as  kind  as  he  can  be.  An'  he  wears  the  finest 
clothes  !  [She  stares  in  the  fire. 

Aunt  Candace.     Dat  he  do.     Dey  ain't  no  'sputin'  of  it.     I 


WHITE    DRESSES  225 

alius  said  he's  de  best-lookin'  nigger  in  de  country.     An'  dey 
ain't  nobody  kinder'n  Jim.     No,  suh. 

Maey.  An'  to-day  he  said  'twas  a  pity  I  had  to  work  an' 
wash  like  a  slave  for  a  livin'.  He  don'  treat  me  like  I  was  a 
nigger.     He  acts  like  I'm  white  folks.     Aunty,  you  reckon  .  .  . 

Aunt  Candace.  [Gazing  at  her  with  a  troubled  look  of  aston- 
ishment.] I  knows  it,  honey,  I  knows  it.  Course  dey  ain't  no 
better  nigger'n  Jim  an'  I  wants  you  to  marry  Jim.  He's  a- 
waitin'  an'  .  .  . 

Mary.  [Vehemently.]  I  ain't  talkin'  'bout  Jim.  What's 
Jim  ?     He  ain't  nothin'. 

Aunt  Candace.  [Guessing  at  the  truth,  half  rises  from  her 
seat.]     What  you  mean  ?     Huh  !     What  you  talkin'  'bout  ? 

Mary.     [Wearily  sitting  down.]     Nothin',  aunty,  jes'  talkin'. 

Aunt  Candace.     Jes'  talkin'  ?     Chile  .  .  .  chile  .  .  . 

Mary.     Aunty,  did  you  ever  wish  you  was  white  ? 

Aunt  Candace.  [Troubled.]  Laws  a  mercy !  Huh !  White ! 
Wish  I's  white  ?  Lawdy,  no !  What  I  want  to  be  white  foh  ? 
I's  born  a  nigger,  an'  I's  gwine  die  a  nigger.  I  ain't  one  to  tear 
up  de  work  o'  de  Lawd.  He  made  me  an'  I  ain't  gwine  try  to 
change  it.  What's  in  yo'  haid,  chile.''  [Sadly.]  Po'  thing, 
don't  do  dat.  Yo'  po'  mammy  useter  talk  lak  dat  .  .  .  one 
reason  she  ain't  livin'  to-day.  An'  I  ain't  done  prayin'  foh  'er 
nuther.  Chile,  you  git  such  notions  ra't  out'n  yo'  haid.  [She 
shakes  her  head,  groaning.]  Oh,  Lawdy !  Lawdy !  [Then^ 
screaming,  she  puts  her  hands  to  her  head.  She  grasps  her  stick 
and  begins  striking  about  her,  shrieking.]  Dey's  after  me !  Dey's 
after  me !  [She  continues  beating  around  her.]  Open  de  do' ! 
Open  de  do' ! 

[Mary  puts  her  arms  around  her  and  tries  to  soothe  her,  but 
she  breaks  away  from  her,  fighting  with  her  stick.  Then 
Mary  runs  and  opens  the  door,  and  Aunt  Candace 
drives  the  imaginary  devils  out. 

Mary.     They're  gone  now,  they're  gone. 


228  PAUL    GREENE 

[She  closes  the  door  and  leads  her  back  to  her  seat.     Aunt 
Candace  sits  down,  mumbling  and  groaning.     The  spell 
passes  and  the  toild  look  dies  from  her  face. 
Aunt  Candace.     [Looking  up.]     I's  had  another  spell,  ain't 
I,  honey? 

Mart.     Yes'm,  but  you're  all  right  now. 

[She  pours  out  some  medicine  and  gives  it  to  her. 

Aunt  Candace.     Some  dese  days  I's  gwine  be  carried  off  by 

'em,  chile;  I's  ol'  an'  po'ly,  ol'  an'  po'ly  now.     Dem  debbils 

gwine  git  me  yit.  [She  mumbles. 

Mary.     No,  they  ain't,  aunty.     I  ain't  goin'  to  let  'em. 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  stamping  of  feet. 
Aunt  Candace.     What's  dat  ? 

Mary.  Nothin'.  Somebody  at  the  door.  [The  low  struma 
ming  of  guitar  is  heard.]     That's  Jim.     Come  in  ! 

[Jim  Matthews  enters.  He  is  a  young  negro  about  twenty- 
two  years  old,  and  as  blnck  as  his  African  ancestors.  He 
carries  a  guitar  slung  over  his  shoulders,  wears  an  old 
derby  hat,  tan  shirt  with  a  dark  tie,  well-worn  blue  suit, 
the  coat  of  which  comes  to  his  knees,  and  tan  shoes,  slashed 
along  the  sides  to  make  room  for  his  feet.  As  he  comes  in 
he  pulls  off  his  hat  and  smiles  genially,  showing  his  white 
teeth.  With  better  clothes  he  might  call  himself  a  spo't. 
Jim.     Good  even',  ladies.  [He  lays  his  derby  on  the  bed. 

Aunt  Candace.  [Turning  around  in  her  chair.]  What  does 
he  say  ? 

Mary.     He  says  good  evenin'. 

Aunt  Candace.  Ah-hsih !  Good  even',  Jim.  Take  a  seat. 
I's  sho  glad  you  come.  Mary's  been  talkin'  'bout  you.  [He 
smiles  complacently.]     We's  sho  glad  you  come. 

[He  takes  a  seat  between  Aunt  Candace  and  Mary. 
Jim.     Yes'm.     An'  I's  sho  glad  to  be  wid  you  all.     I's  alius 
glad  to  be  wid  de  ladies. 

Aunt  Candace.     What's  he  say  ? 


WHITE    DRESSES  227 

Jim.     [Louder.]     I's  glad  to  be  wid  you  all. 
Aunt  C  and  ace.     Ah-hah!     [Jim  pulU  out  a  large  checkered 
handkerchit^  from  his  breast-pocket,  wipes  his  forehead,  and  then 
flips  the  dust  from  his  shoes.     He  folds  it  carefully  and  puts  it  ha^k 
in  his  pocket.]     Any  news,  Jim  ? 

Jim.     No'm,  none  'tall.     Any  wid  you .'' 

Aunt  Candace.  Hah?  No,  nothin'  'tall,  'ceptin*  Mr. 
Henry  done  said  .  .  .  said  .  .  . 

[Here  she  groans  sharply  and  puts  her  hand  to  her  head. 
Jim.     What's  that  she's  sayin'  ?     [As  Aunt  Candace  contin- 
ues groaning.]     Still  havin'  them  spells,  is  she,  Miss  Mary  ? 
Mary.     Yes,  she  has  'em  about  every  night. 

[Making  a  movement  as  if  to  go  to  Aunt  Candace.     She 
stops  and  stares  in  the  fire. 
Aunt  Candace.     Ne'  min'  me.     I's  all  right  now.     An'  you 
chillun  go  on  wid  yo'  cou'tin'.     I's  gwine  peel  my  'taters. 

[Raking  the  potatoes  from  the  ashes,  she  begins  peeling  them. 

Then  she  takes  a  piece  of  sausage  from  the  package  in  the 

corner.     Jim  smiles  sheepishly  and  strums  his  guitar  once 

or  twice.     He  moves  his  chair  nearer  to  Mary.     She 

moves  mechanically  from  him,  still  gazing  in  the  fire. 

Jim.     Er  .  .  .  Miss  Mary,  you's  lookin'   'ceedin'   snatchin' 

wid  dat  white  ribbon  an'  new  cloak.     I's  glad  to  see  you  thought 

I's  comin'  'round.     Yes'm,  I  tells  all  de  gals  you  got  'em  beat  a 

mile.     [He  stops.     Mary  pays  no  attention  to  him.]     From  here 

slam  to  France  an'  back,  I  ain't  seed  no  gals  lak  you.     Yes'm, 

dat's  what  I  tells  'em  all,  an'  I  oughta  know,  kaze  I's  an  ol'  road 

nigger.     I's  seen  de  world,  I  has.     But  I's  tired  of  'tall,  an'  I 

wants  to  settle  down  .  .  .  an'  .  .  .  you  knows  me  .  .  .  [He 

stops  and  fidgets  in  his  chair,  struma  his  guitar,  feels  of  his  necktie  y 

takes  Old  his  handkerchief  and  wipes  his  forehead.]     Miss  Mary, 

Is... 

Mary.  Jim,  I  done  tol'  you,  you  needn't  come  messin'  'round 
here.  I  ain't  lovin'  you.  I  ain't  goin'  to  marry — ^nobody, 
never ! 


2!28  PAUL    GREENE 

Jim.  [Taken  aback.]  Now,  Miss  Mary  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  honey, 
I  knows  jas'  how  you  feels.  It's  kaze  I  been  a  rounder,  but  you'll 
hadder  forgive  me.  An'  I's  gwine  'form,  I  is.  I's  quit  all  dem 
tother  gals,  near  'bout  broke  dey  hearts,  but  I  hadder  do  it. 
Dey's  only  one  foh  me,  you  know.  To-day  I's  talkin'  to  dat 
young  feller,  Hugh  Mawgin,  an'  .  .  . 

Mary.  Hugh  what!  What  you  sayin',  Jim  Matthews !  Mr. 
Hugh,  you  mean. 

Jim.  [Hurriedly.]  Yes'm,  I  said  *'Mr.  Hugh."  Didn't  you 
hear  me,  Miss  Mary  ? 

Mary.     What'd  you  say  to  him  } 

Jim.  I  told  'im  I's  callin'  'round  here  *casionaIly,  an'  he  said 
.  .  .  he  .  .  . 

Mary.     [Looking  straight  at  Jim.]     He  said  what  .'* 

Jim.  He  axed  me  if  I's  a-courtin',  an'  I  told  'im  I  mought 
.  .  .  er  .  .  .  be  .  .  . 

Mary.  Go  on;  tell  me.  Did  he  say  I  ought  to  marry 
you.? 

Jim.  [Eagerly.]  Yes'm  .  .  .  [Mary  gasps.]  No'm,  not  ez- 
zactly  ...  He  said  as  how  it  was  a  pity  you  had  nobody  to 
take  care  o'  you,  an'  had  to  work  so  hard  lak  a  slave  every  day. 
An'  he  said  you's  most  too  purty  an'  good  to  do  it.  An'  I  tuck 
from  'is  talk  dat  he  meant  he  thought  you's  good  enough  foh 
me,  an'  wanted  me  to  take  care  o'  you,  so's  you  wouldn't  hadder 
work. 

Mary.     Oh!  .  .  .     Yes,  I  reckon  so.  [She  is  silent. 

Jim.  He's  a  eddicated  boy,  an'  he  knows.  Dey  teaches  'im 
how  to  know  everything  out  yander  at  dat  college  place.  He 
sees  my  worf,  he  does.  Co'se  I  ain't  braggin',  but  de  gals  all 
do  say  .  .  .  oh,  you  know  what  dey  says. 

Mary.  [Jumping  up  from  her  chair.]  Jim  Matthews,  you 
think  I'd  marry  a  .  .  .  oh,  I'd  .  .  . 

Aunt  Candace.     [Turning  around.]     What's  you  sayin',  gal  ? 


WHITE    DRESSES  229 

Mart.  [Sittin'  down.]  Oh,  aunty !  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  was  just 
Xskin'  Jim  to  play  a  piece.  [To  Jiai  in  a  lower  voice.]  For  the 
Lord's  sake  play  somethin'  .  .  . 

[She  hides  her  face  in  her  apron. 
Aunt  Candace.     Ah-hah.  .  .  .     Play  us  a  piece  on  yo'  box, 
Jim. 

[Jim,  at  a  loss  as  to  the  meaning  of  Mary's  tears,  but  feeling 
that  they  are  somehow  a  further  proof  of  his  power  with 
the  ladies,  smiles  knowingly,  tunes  his  guitar,  and  begins 
strumming  a  chord.     After  playing  a  few  bars,  he  starts 
singing  in  a  clear  voice,  with  "Ohs''  and  "Ahs"  thrown 
in. 
Jm.     Oh,  whah  you  gwine,  my  lover  ? 
Gwine  on  down  de  road. 
Oh,  whah  you  gwine,  my  lover  ? 
Gwine  on  down  de  road. 
(Ba^s)     Gwine  .  .  .  on  .  .  .  gwine  on  down  de  road. 

She  th'owed  her  arms  aroun'  me 

An'  cast  me  silver  an'  gold. 

Said,  "Whah  you  gwine,  my  lover.'*'* 

Gwine  on  down  de  road. 

(Bass)     Oh,  Lawd  !  ...  Oh,  Lawd ! 

Gwine  .  .  .  on  .  .  .  down  .  .  .  de  .  .  .  road. 
[Mary  still  leans  forward,  with  her  face  in  her  hands.     Jim 
stops  playing  and  speaks  softly. 
Jim.     Miss  Mary,  I's  sho'  sorry  I  made  you  cry.     Honey,  I 
ioii*t  want  you  to  cry  'bout  me  lak  dat  .  .  . 

[She  remains  silent.  He  smiles  in  self-gratulation,  but  ut- 
ters a  mournful  sigh  for  her  benefit.  Pulling  his  guitar 
further  up  on  his  lap,  he  takes  out  his  pocket-knife,  fits  it 
between  his  fingers  in  imitation  of  the  Hawaiians,  clears 
his  throat  and  strikes  another  chord. 
Aunt  Candace.     [Noticing    the    silence,    looks    at    Mary.] 


2S0  PAUL    GREENE 

What's  de  trouble  wid  you,  gal?     What's  de  trouble,  chile? 
Oh,  Lawdy  me  !  [Passing  her  hand  across  her  forehead. 

Mary.  [Raising  her  head.]  Nothin',  nothin'.  I'm  tickled 
at  Jim.  [To  Jim.]  Go  on,  play  her  piece  about  the  hearse. 
Play  it ! 

Jim.     [Strums  his  guitar,  tunes  it,  and  begins.] 

Hearse  done  carried  somebody  to  de  graveyard. 

Lawd,  I  know  my  time  ain't  long. 
Hearse  done  carried  somebody  to  de  graveyard. 

Lawd,  I  know  my  time  ain't  long. 
[He  sings  louder,  syncopating  with  his  feet.] 
Preacher  keeps  a-preachin'  an'  people  keep  a-dyin*. 

Lawd,  I  know  my  time  ain't  long. 
[Aunt   Candace   begins   swaying   rhythmically   with   the 
mv^ic,  clapping  her  hands,  and  now  and  then  exclaim- 
ing. 
Aunt  Candace.     Jesus !    Lawdy,  my  Lawd ! 

[She  and  Jim  begin  to  sing  alternately,  she  the  first  verse  and 
Jim  the  refrain.  While  this  is  going  on  Mary,  unob- 
served, goes  to  the  window,  pulls  open  the  curtain  and 
looks  out,  stretching  her  clenched  hands  above  her  head. 
She  turns  to  the  mirror,  smooths  back  her  heavy  hair, 
shakes  her  head,  snatches  off  the  ribbon  and  throws  it  on 
the  floor.  Then  she  pulls  off  her  cloak  and  lays  it  on  the 
bed.  She  picks  up  the  ribbon  and  puts  it  in  the  bureau. 
Meanwhile  the  music  has  continued. 
Hammer  keep  ringin'  on  somebody's  coflSn. 
Jim.     Lawd,  I  know  my  time  ain't  long. 

[They  repeat  these  lines. 
Aunt  Candace.     Gwine  roll  'em  up  lak  leaves  in  de  judg- 
ment. 

Jim.     Lawd,  I  know  my  time  ain't  long. 

[After  these  lines  have  been  repeated,  Jim,  noticing  Mary's 
absence  from  his  side,  stops  and  looks  around.  Aunt 
Candace  keeps  on  singing  a  verse  or  two.     She  stops  and 


WHITE    DRESSES  231 

looks  around,  sees  Mary  standing  in  an  attitude  of  de- 
spair.    Jim  speaks. 
Jim.     Miss  Mary ! 
Aunt  Candace.     What  is  it,  lionej^  ? 

[There  is  a  stamping  of  feet  outside.     Mary  raises  her  head 
with  an  expectant  look  on  her  face.     She  runs  to  the  door 
and  opens  it.     Her  expression  changes  to  one  of  disap- 
pointment and  fear  as  Henry  Morgan  enters.     He  is 
a  man  of  powerful  build,  about  fifty  years  old,  rough  and 
overbearing.     A  week's  growth  of  grizzled  beard  darkens 
his  face.     He  wears  a  felt  hat,  long  black  overcoat,  ripped 
at  the  pockets  and  buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  big  laced  boots ^ 
and  yarn  mittens.     In  his  hand  he  carries  a  package, 
which  he  throws  contemptuously  on  the  bed.     He  keeps 
his  hat  on.     Mary  closes  the  door  and  stands  with  her 
back  to  it,  clasping  the  latch-string.     Aunt  C  and  ace  and 
Jim  offer  their  seats.     Jim's  look  is  one  of  servile  respect, 
that  of  Aunt  Candace  one  of  troubled  expectancy. 
Morgan.     [In  a  booming  voice.]     Dad  burn  you,  Jim.     Still 
a-courtin',  eh  ?     Set  down,  Candace.     I  ain't  goin't  to  stay  long. 
Aunt  Candace.     [Querulously.]     What's  he  say  ? 
Mary.     [Coming  to  the  centre  of  the  room.]     He  says  for  you 
to  set  down.     He  ain't  goin'  to  stay  long. 

Aunt  Candace.     [Sitting  down.]    Ah-hah  .  .  .  Oh,  Lawdy! 
Lawdy ! 

Morgan.     [Coming  closer  to  Aunt  Candace.]     How  you  get- 
tin'  'long  now,  Candace  ? 

Aunt  Candace.     Po'ly,  po'ly,  Mr.  Mawgin.     Ain't  got  much 
longer  down  here,  ain't  much  longer. 

Morgan.  [Laughing.]  Aw  come  on,  Candace,  cut  out  your 
foolin'.  You  ain't  half  as  bad  off  as  you  make  out.  [Jim  moves 
his  chair  to  the  corner  and  sits  down.]  I  understand  you.  If 
you'd  git  up  from  there  an'  go  to  work  you'd  be  well  in  a  week. 
Aunt  Candace.  Oh,  Lawd,  Mr.  Mawgin,  I  sho'  is  po'ly !  I 
hopes  you'll  never  have  to  suffer  lak  me. 


^2S2  PAUL    GREENE 

[Mumbling,  she  shakes  her  head,  rocks  to  and  fro  icithout 
taking  her  feet  from  the  floor,  punctuating  her  movements 
by  tapping  with  her  stick.  Morgax  sees  ^NLiry  looking 
at  the  package. 

MoRG.o:.  That's  for  Mary.  I  was  comin'  down  this  way 
an'  caught  up  with  John.  He  said  he  was  comin'  here  to  bring 
it.  An'  so  I  took  an'  brought  it,  though  he  acted  sort  of  queer 
about  it,  Hke  he  didn't  want  me  even  to  save  him  a  long  walk. 
Wonder  what  that  nigger  can  be  gi^nn'  you.  [IVIaby  starts 
toicard  the  bed.]  Xo,  you  ain't  goin'  to  see  it  now,  gal.  We  got 
a  little  business  to  'tend  to  first.  Did  you  tell  Candace  what  I 
said  ? 

Mart.  Mr.  Morgan,  how  could  I  ?  .  .  .  I  couldn't  do  it,  not 
to-night. 

Morg-JlX.  L'h-huh  ...  I  knowed  it.  Knowed  I'd  better 
come  down  here  an*  make  sure  of  it.  Durn  me,  you  been  cnnn', 
ain't  you  ?     [His  voice  softens.]     What's  the  trouble,  gal  ? 

Maj^y.     Xothin',  nothin'.     I  ...  I  been  tickled  at  Jim. 

Jni.     Tickled  at  Jim  ? 

Aunt  Caxdace.     What  does  he  say  ? 

Morgan.  [Turning  to  her.]  Keep  quiet,  can't  you,  Candace; 
I  got  a  little  business  with  Mary.  [Aunt  Candace  becomes  silent 
and  begins  icatching  the  package.  She  half  starts  from  her  chair, 
then  settles  back,  staring  hard  at  the  bundle.  Morgan  speaks  to 
!^L\RY.]  You  ain't  been  cryin'  about  what  I  told  you  this  eve- 
nin',  have  you  ? 

M-AJiY.  Xo,  sir.  I  was  tickled  at  Jim.  It  wan't  nothin', 
honest  it  wan't. 

MoRG-A^'.     Well,  go  on  lyin'  if  you  want  to. 

M.uiY.     Mr.  Morgan,  I  was  jes'  .  .  . 

Morgan.  Xo  matter.  [Brusquely.]  Well,  what  you  goin' 
to  do  about  what  I  said  ?  [He  looks  at  her  squarely.  Jem  watches 
them  both  tcith  open  mouth.  Aunt  C-a:nt>ace  keeps  staring  at  the 
bundle  on  the  bed,  and  7ioic  and  then  glancing  around  to  see  if  any 


WHITE    DRESSES  233 

one  is  vxitching  her.  She  is  oblivious  of  the  conversation.  Mary 
stands  with  bowed  head.]  Well,  what  about  it?  I've  done  told 
you  you  got  to  get  out  at  the  first  o'  the  year  if  you  ain't  a  mind 
to  marry  Jim.  [Jim  straightens  up.]  At  least  you've  got  to 
marry  somebody  that  can  come  here  and  work.  I  told  you  to 
tell  Candace  to  look  out  for  it.  Why  didn't  you  tell  her  like  I 
said  ? 

Mary.     I  couldn't  do  it.     It'd  kill  her  to  leave  here.     You 
know  it.     She's  been  good  to  me  all  my  life.     Oh,  I  can't  do  it. 
[Aunt  Candace  stealthily  slips  across  the  room  and  picks 
up  the  package  from  the  bed,  unseen  by  any  one  but  Jim. 
Morgan.     Can't  do  it.'^     Well,  what  you  want  me  to  do.'^ 
Lose  money  on  you  till  the  end  of  time !     You  ain't  earned 
enough  to  keep  you  in  clothes  for  the  last  three  years  since  Can- 
dace  got  down,  an'  .  .  . 

[A  terrible  cry  rings  out.     Aunt  Candace  stands  by  the 
bed,  holding   a   white   dress  up  before  her.      Morgan 
looks  perplexed.     Suddenly  he  starts  back  in  astonish- 
ment. 
Mary.     [Starting  forward.]     It's    for   me !     [Joyously.]     It's 
mine ! 

Morgan.     [Catching  Mary  by  the  arm.]     What — what  is  it.'^ 
,  .  .     Heigh !     Don't  you  move,  gal !     Wait  a  minute  ! 

[He  pulls  her  back.     Aunt  Candace  looks  at  Morgan. 

Gradually  he  lowers  his  head. 

Aunt  Candace.     I's   a-f eared   on   it.     I   knowed   it  ...  I 

knowed  it.     [She  throws  the  dress  back  on  the  bed  and  hobbles  to 

the  fire,  groaning.]     Oh,  Lawdy  !     Oh,  Lawdy  !     My  po'  li'l  gal ! 

My  po'  li'l  gal ! 

[She  rocks  to  and  fro.     Morgan's  hxind  falls  from  IVIary's 

shoulder,  and  she  runs  to  the  bed. 

IVLiRY.     He  sent  it  to  me !     He  sent  it  to  me !     I  knowed  he 

wouldn't  forget.  [She  hugs  the  dress  to  her. 

Morgan.     [Turning  to  her.]     Well,  and  what  nigger's  send- 


234  PAUL    GREENE 

ing  you  presents  now  ?     [With  suspicion  fully  aroused.]     "WTio 
give  you  that,  Mary  ! 

Mart.     He  did ! 

Morgan.     [Sternly.]     Who  ? 

Mary.  [Impetuously.]  It  was  him  !  An'  I  don't  care  if  you 
do  know  it ! 

Morgan.     Who  ?     You  don't  mean  .  .  . 

Mary.     I  do  too — an'  .  .  . 

Morgan.     God  a'mighty,  my  ...  it  can't  be  so. 

[Mary  goes  to  the  window  and  holds  the  dress  in  front  of  her. 

Mary.  It  is,  too.  Mr.  Hugh  sent  it  to  me.  [Morgan 
groans.]  He  told  me  to-day  he's  sorry  for  me.  I  loiowed  he'd 
remember  me;  I  knowed  it.  An',  after  all,  I  ain't  been  workin' 
the  whole  year  for  nothin'.     He's  got  a  heart  if  nobody  else  ain't. 

Morgan.     What  in  the  devil !     I  wonder  .  .  .  Lord  ! 

[Aunt  Candace  still  looks  in  the  fire.     For  a  moment 
Morgan  stands  lost  in  abstraction,  then  he  speaks  fiercely. 

Morgan.  Mary,  put  them  damned  things  up.  Put  'em  up, 
I  say.  [He  goes  toward  her.  She  shrinks  back,  holding  the  dress 
to  her.  He  snatches  it  from  her  and  throws  it  on  the  bed,  then  he 
pushes  her  out  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  She  wipes  the  tears  from 
her  eyes  with  her  apron.]  You  listen  here,  gal.  We're  goin'  to 
settle  it  right  here  and  now,  once  and  for  all.  You're  goin'  to 
marry  Jim  ? 

IVIary.  Mr.  Morgan  ...  oh  ...  I  can't  marry  him.  I 
can't!  I  won't!  Let  me  stay.  Don't  drive  her  out;  she'll 
die.  I'll  work,  I'll  hoe  an'  wash,  day  an'  night.  I'll  do  any- 
thing, I'll  .  .  . 

Morgan.  [Fiercely.]  You've  tole  me  that  a  thousand  times, 
an'  you've  got  to  say  one  or  the  other  right  now.  Right  now ! 
Do  you  hear!  Marry  Jim,  I  tell  you,  and  it'll  be  all  right. 
He's  smart  and  he'll  take  care  of  you  .  .  . 

Mary.  I  can't  do  it,  I  tell  you.  I  can't !  I'd  rather  die. 
Look  at  me.     Ain't  I  almost  white  .^     Look  at  him.     He's  black 


WHITE    DRESSES  235 

and  I  hate  him.  I  can't  marry  no  nigger.  Oh,  don't  make  me 
do  it. 

Morgan.  White !  What's  that  got  to  do  with  your  mar- 
ryin*.!^  Ain't  you  a  .  .  .?  You  don't  think  you  can  marry  a 
white  man,  do  you.^  I  tell  you  you've  got  to  decide  to-night. 
I've  been  after  you  now  for  two  years  and,  gal,  you've  got  to 
doit! 

Mary.  Don't  make  me  do  it !  I  hate  him.  I  ain't  black. 
Oh,  Lord  !  .  .   . 

Morgan.     [Desperately.]     Candace ! 

Mary.  [Clutching  at  his  arm.]  Don't  tell  her.  I  ain't  goin' 
to  see  her  drove  out  in  the  cold  from  her  home.  Don't  tell  her. 
[Aunt  Candace  still  looks  in  the  fire.  Jim  sits  lost  in 
amazement,  idly  strumming  his  guitar. 

Morgan.    Well  ? 

Mary.     [Looking  wildly  around,  as  if  seeking  help.]     Oh!  .  .  . 

Morgan.  [Wiping  his  face.]  Gal,  I  don't  want  to  be  too 
hard  on  you.  But  use  common  sense.  I've  been  good  to  you. 
They  ain't  another  man  in  the  county  that  would  have  kept  you 
for  the  last  three  years,  an'  losin'  money  on  you  every  year.  I'm 
done  of  it,  gal,  I'm  done.     Marry  Jim. 

Mary.  He  wouldn't  let  you  do  it  if  he  was  here.  He 
wouldn't. 

Morgan.     'Who  ?     Who  you  talkin'  about  ? 

Mary.  Mr.  Hugh,  your  boy.  He's  got  feelin's,  he  has.  If 
he  was  here  .  .  . 

Morgan.  [Hoarsely.]  I  know  it.  I  know  it.  Don't  you 
see  ?  He's  all  I  got.  I  can't  run  the  risk  of  his  .  .  .  Oh,  Mary, 
I  can't  tell  you.  For  God's  sake,  marry  Jim.  Can't  you  see? 
You've  got  to  marry  him !  Hugh's  gone  off  for  a  week,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  settle  it  before  he  ever  gets  back.  And  when  he  gets 
back,  you  and  Candace  will  be  clean  out  of  this  country,  if  you 
don't  marry  Jim.  They  ain't  nobody  else  'round  here  will  take 
you  in,  and  keep  you  like  I  have. 


236  PAUL    GREENE 

Mary.     Where  .  .  .  where's  he  gone  ? 

Morgan.  He's  gone  to  see  his  gal.  The  one  he's  going  to 
marry.     And  by  God,  you've  got  to  marry  Jim. 

Mary.  [Half  sobbing.]  They  ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  change  it. 
I've  tried  and  tried,  but  they  ain't  no  use.  I  jus'  as  well  do  it. 
Yes,  yes,  I'll  marry  him.  I'll  marry  him.  They  ain't  no  way 
to  be  white.  I  got  to  be  a  nigger.  I'll  marry  him,  yes.  I'll 
marry  him,  an'  work  an'  hoe  an'  wash  an'  raise  more  children 
to  go  through  it  all  like  me,  maybe  other  children  that'll  want 
to  be  white  an'  can't.  They  ain't  nobody  can  help  me.  But 
look  at  him.  [Pointing  to  Jim.]  He's  a  nigger  an'  .  .  .  yes 
.  .  .  I'm  a  nigger  too. 

[She  throws  her  arms  out,  letting  them  fall  at  her  side. 

Morgan.  [Almost  gently.]  All  right,  Mary  .  .  .  I'll  send  for 
the  preacher  and  the  license  in  the  morning  and  have  him  marry 
you  and  Jim  right  here.  You  needn't  think  about  leavin'  any 
more.  And  you  and  Jim  can  live  here  as  long  as  you  please. 
Is  that  all  right,  Jim  ? 

Jim.  [Uncertainly.]  Yes-suh,  yes-suh,  Mr.  Mawgin  !  An'  I 
thanks  you  'specially. 

Morgan.  [Going  up  to  Aunt  Candace,]  Mary  and  Jim  are 
going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  Candace.  It'll  be  a  lucky  day 
for  3"ou.  [She  makes  no  answer,  but  continues  her  trancelike  stare 
in  the  fire.  Morgan  comes  to  Mary  and  offers  his  hand.  She 
fails  to  see  it.]  Child,  what  I've  had  to  do  to-night  has  hurt  me 
a  whole  lot  worse'n  you.  .  .  .     Good-night,  Mary. 

[He  stands  a  moment  looking  at  the  floor,  then  goes  out 
quietly. 

Jim.  [Coming  up  to  Mary.]     Miss  Mary,  don't  look  lak  dat. 
I's  gwine  do  better,  I's  .  .  .     [Mary  keeps  her  head  muffled  in 
her  apron.]     Honey,  I's  sho'  gwine  make  you  a  good  man. 

[Mary  pays  no  attention  to  him.  In  his  embarrassment  he 
strums  his  guitar,  clears  his  throat,  props  his  foot  up  on 
a  chair  rung,  and  begins  singing  in  a  low  voice.] 


WHITE    DRESSES  237 

Jim.     Lyin'  in  the  jail  house, 

A-peepin'  th'ough  de  bars.  .  .  . 
UNT  Candace.  [Waking  from  her  reverie.]  Bring  me  de  li'l 
black  box,  gal.  Bring  me  de  box !  [Mary  drops  her  apron  and 
siares  dully  at  the  floor.]  Bring  me  de  box !  [Half -screaming.] 
Bring  me  de  box,  I  say!  [Trembling  and  groaning,  she  stands 
up.  Mary  goes  to  the  chest  and  brings  her  the  black  box.  Aunt 
Candace  drops  her  stick  and  clutches  it.]  I's  gwine  tell  you  de 
secret  o'  dis  li'l  box.  Yo'  mammy  told  me  to  tell  you  if  de  time 
ever  come,  an'  it's  come.  She  seed  trouble  an'  our  mammy 
befo'  us.  [She  takes  a  key^  tied  by  a  string  around  her  neck,  and 
unlocks  the  box,  pulling  out  a  V)rinkled  white  dress,  yellowed  with 
age,  of  the  style  of  the  last  generation.  Jim  sits  down,  overcome 
with  astonishment,  staring  at  the  old  woman  with  open  mouth.] 
Look  heah,  chile.  I's  gwine  tell  you  now.  Nineteen  yeahs  ago 
come  dis  Christmas  dey's  a  white  man  gi'n  your  mammy  dis 
heah,  an'  dat  white  man  is  kixi  to  you,  an'  he  don't  live  fur  off 
nuther.  Gimme  dat  dress  dere  on  de  bed.  [Mary  gets  it  and 
holds  it  tightly  to  her  breast.  Aunt  Candace  snatches  at  it,  but 
Mary  clings  to  it.]     Gimme  dat  dress ! 

Mary.     It's  mine ! 

Aunt  Candace.  Gimme !  [She  jerks  the  dress  from  Mary. 
Hobbling  to  the  fireplace,  she  lays  both  of  them  carefully  on  the 
flames.  Jim  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  save  them,  but  she  waves 
him  back  with  her  stick.]  Git  back,  nigger !  Git  back !  Dis 
night  I's  gwine  wipe  out  some  o'  de  traces  o'  sin.  [Mary  sits  in 
her  chair,  sobbing.  As  the  dresses  burn  Aunt  Candace  comes  to 
her  and  lays  her  hand  upon  her  head.]  I  knows  yo'  feelin's,  chile. 
But  yo's  got  to  smother  'em  in.     Yo's  got  to  smother  'em  in. 

curtain 


MOONSHINE 

BY 

ARTHUR  HOPKINS 


Moonshine  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Arthur  Hopkins,  Plym- 
outh Theatre,  New  York  City.  All  rights  reserved.  For  permission  to 
perform,  address  the  author. 


ARTHUR  HOPKINS 

Arthur  Hopkins,  one  of  the  well-known  men  of  the  practical 
theatre  of  to-day,  was  born  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  in  1878.  He 
completed  his  academic  training  at  Western  Reserve  University, 
Cleveland,  Ohio.  At  present  he  is  the  manager  of  Plymouth 
Theatre,  New  York  City. 

Mr.  Hopkins's  entire  life  has  been  given  to  the  theatre,  which 
is  his  hobby.  In  the  midst  of  his  various  activities  as  a  man- 
ager he  has  found  time  to  do  some  dramatic  writing.  Among 
his  one-act  plays  are  Thunder  God,  Broadway  Love,  and  Moon- 
shine, which  appeared  in  the  Theatre  Acts  Magazine  for  January, 
1919. 

Moonshine  is  an  excellent  play  of  situation  that  has  grown  out 
of  the  reaction  of  character  on  character. 


CHARACTERS 

Luke  Hazy,  Moonshiner 
A  Reventje  Officer 


MOONSHINE 

SCENE:  Hut  of  a  moonshiner  in  the  mountain  wilds  of  North 
Carolina.  Door  back  left.  Window  back  right  centre.  Old 
deal  table  right  centre.  Kitchen  chair  at  either  side  of  table, 
not  close  to  it.  Old  cupboard  in  left  corner.  Rude  stone  fire- 
-place left  side.  On  back  wall  near  door  is  a  rough  pencil 
sketch  of  a  man  hanging  from  a  tree. 

At  rise  of  curtain  a  commotion  is  heard  outside  of  hut. 

Luke.  [Off  stage.]  It's  all  right,  boys  .  .  .  Jist  leave  him 
to  me  .  .  .  Git  in  there,  Mister  Revenue. 

[Revenue,  a  Northerner  in  city  attire,  without  hat,  clothes 
dusty,  is  pushed  through  doorway.     Luke,  a  lanky,  ill- 
dressed  Southerner,  following,  closes  door.     Revenue's 
hands  are  tied  behind  him. 
Luke.     You  must  excuse  the  boys  for  makin'  a  demonstration 
over  you.  Mister  Revenue,  but  you  see  they  don't  come  across 
you  fellers  very  frequent,  and  they  alius  gits  excited. 
Revenue.     I  appreciate  that  I'm  welcome. 
Luke.     'Deed  you  is,  and  I'm  just  agoin'  to  untie  your  hands 
long  nuff  f er  you  to  take  a  sociable  drink.     [Goes  to  stranger,  feels 
in  all  pockets  for  weapons.]     Reckon  yer  travellin'  peaceable. 
{Unties  hands.]     Won't  yer  sit  down  ? 

Revenue.  [Drawing  over  chair  and  sitting.]  Thank  you. 
[Rubs  wrists  to  get  back  circulation.] 

Luke.  [Going  over  to  cupboard  and  taking  out  jug.]  Yessa, 
Mister,  the  boys  ain't  seen  one  o'  you  fellers  fer  near  two  years. 
Began  to  think  you  wus  goin'  to  neglect  us.  I  wus  hopin'  you 
might  be  Jim  Dunn.     Have  a  drink  ? 

243 


244  ARTHUR    HOPKINS 

Revenue.  [Starts  slightly  at  mention  of  Jim  Dunn.]  No, 
thank  you,  your  make  is  too  strong  for  me. 

Luke.  It  hain't  no  luck  to  drink  alone  when  you  git  com- 
pany.    Better  have  some. 

Revenue.     Very  well,  my  friend,  I  suffer  willingly. 

[Drinks  a  little  and  chokes. 

Luke.  [Draining  cup.]  I  reckon  ye  all  don't  like  the  flavor 
of  liquor  that  hain't  been  stamped. 

Revenue.    It's  not  so  bad. 

Luke.  The  last  Revenue  that  sit  in  that  chair  got  drunk  on 
my  make. 

Revenue.     That  wouldn't  be  diflScult. 

Luke.     No,  but  it  wuz  awkward. 

Revenue.     Why  ? 

Luke.  I  had  to  wait  till  he  sobered  up  before  I  give  him  his 
ticker.  I  didn't  feel  like  sendin'  him  to  heaven  drunk.  He'd  a 
found  it  awkward  climbin'  that  golden  ladder. 

Revenue.     Thoughtful  executioner. 

Luke.  So  you  see  mebbe  you  kin  delay  things  a  little  by 
dallyin'  with  the  licker. 

Revenue.  [Picking  up  cup,  getting  it  as  far  as  his  lips,  slowly 
puts  it  down.]     The  price  is  too  great. 

Luke.  I'm  mighty  sorry  you  ain't  Jim  Dunn.  But  I  reckon 
you  ain't.     You  don't  answer  his  likeness. 

Revenue.     Who's  Jim  Dunn  ? 

Luke.  You  ought  to  know  who  Jim  Dunn  is.  He's  just 
about  the  worst  one  of  your  revenue  critters  that  ever  hit  these 
parts.  He's  got  four  of  the  boys  in  jail.  We  got  a  little  recep- 
tion all  ready  for  him.     See  that  ? 

[Pointing  to  sketch  on  back  wall. 

Revenue.     [Looking  at  sketch.]     Yes. 

Luke.     That's  Jim  Dunn. 

Revenue.  [Rising,  examining  picture.]  Doesn't  look  much 
like  any  one. 


MOONSHINE  245 

Luke.  Well,  that's  what  Jim  Dunn 'II  look  like  when  we  git 
'im.     I'm  mighty  sorry  you  hain't  Jim  Dunn. 

Revenue.     I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you. 

Luke.  [Turning  to  cupboard  and  filling  pipe.]  Oh,  it's  all 
right.  I  reckon  one  Revenue's  about  as  good  as  another,  after 
all. 

Revenue.     Are  you  sure  I'm  a  revenue  officer  ? 

Luke.  [Rising.]  Well,  since  we  ketched  ye  climin'  trees  an' 
snoopin'  round  the  stills,  I  reckon  we  won't  take  no  chances  that 
you  hain't. 

Revenue.    Oh. 

Luke.  Say,  mebbe  you'd  like  a  seggar.  Here's  one  I  been 
savin'  fer  quite  a  spell  back,  thinkin'  mebbe  I'd  have  company 
some  day.  [Brings  out  dried-up  cigar,  hands  it  to  him. 

Revenue.     No,  thank  you. 

Luke.  It  hain't  no  luck  to  smoke  alone  when  ye  got  company. 
[Striking  match  and  holding  it  to  Revenue.]  Ye  better  smoke. 
[Revenue  bites  off  end  and  mouth  is  filled  with  dust,  spits  out  dust. 
Luke  holds  match  to  cigar.  With  difficulty  Revenue  lights  it.] 
That's  as  good  a  five-cent  cigar  as  ye  can  git  in  Henderson. 

Revenue.  [After  two  puffs,  makes  wry  face,  throws  cigar  on 
table.]     You  make  death  very  easy.  Mister. 

Luke.  Luke's  my  name.  Yer  kin  call  me  Luke.  Make  you 
feel  as  though  you  had  a  friend  near  you  at  the  end — Luke  Hazy. 

Revenue.  [Starting  as  though  interested,  rising.]  Not  the 
Luke  Hazy  that  cleaned  out  the  Crosby  family  ? 

Luke.     [Startled.]    How'd  you  hear  about  it  ? 

Revenue.  Hear  about  it  ?  Why,  your  name's  been  in  every 
newspaper  in  the  United  States.  Every  time  you  killed  another 
Crosby  the  whole  feud  was  told  all  over  again.  Why,  I've  seen 
your  picture  in  the  papers  twenty  times. 

Luke.     Hain't  never  had  one  took. 

Revenue.  That  don't  stop  them  from  printing  it.  Don't 
you  ever  read  the  newspapers  ? 


246  ARTHUR    HOPKINS 

Luke.  Me  read?  I  hain't  read  nothin'  fer  thirty  years. 
Reckon  I  couldn't  read  two  lines  in  a  hour. 

Revenue.  You've  missed  a  lot  of  information  about  your- 
self. 

Luke.     How  many  Crosbys  did  they  say  I  killed  ? 

Revenue.  I  think  the  last  report  said  you  had  just  removed 
the  twelfth. 

Luke.  It's  a  lie !  I  only  killed  six  .  .  .  that's  all  they  wuz 
— growed  up.     I'm  a-w^aitin'  fer  one  now  that's  only  thirteen. 

Revenue.     When '11  he  be  ripe  ? 

Luke.     Jes  as  soon  as  he  comes  a-Iookin'  fer  me. 

Revenue.     Will  he  come  ? 

Luke.     He'll  come  if  he's  a  Crosby. 

Revenue.     A  brave  family  ? 

Luke.  They  don't  make  'em  any  braver — they'd  be  first- 
rate  folks  if  they  wuzn't  Crosbys. 

Revenue.  If  you  feel  that  way  why  did  you  start  fighting 
them  ? 

Luke.  I  never  started  no  fight.  My  granddad  had  some 
misunderstandin'  with  their  granddad.  I  don't  know  jes  what 
it  wuz  about,  but  I  reckon  my  granddad  wuz  right,  and  I'll  see 
it  through. 

Revenue.     You  must  think  a  lot  of  your  grandfather. 

Luke.  Never  seen  'im,  but  it  ain't  no  luck  goin'  agin  yer 
own  kin.     Won't  ye  have  a  drink  ? 

Revenue.     No — no — thank  you. 

Luke.  Well,  Mr.  Revenue,  I  reckon  we  might  as  well  have 
this  over. 

Revenue.     What  ? 

Luke.  Well,  you  won't  get  drunk,  and  I  can't  be  put  to  the 
trouble  o'  havin'  somebody  guard  you. 

Revenue.     That'll  not  be  necessary. 

Luke.  Oh,  I  know  yer  like  this  yer  place  now,  but  this  eve- 
nin'  you  might  take  it  into  yer  head  to  walk  out. 


MOONSHINE  U7 

Revenue.     I'll  not  walk  out  unless  you  make  me. 

Luke,  Tain't  like  I'll  let  yer,  but  I  wouldn't  blame  yer  none 
if  yu  tried. 

Revexue.     But  I'll  not. 

Luke.  [Ruing.]  Say,  Mistah  Revenue,  I  wonder  if  you 
know  what  3^ou're  up  against  ? 

Revenue.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Luke.     I  mean  I  gotta  kill  you. 

Revenue.     [Rising,     pauses.]     Well,  that  lets  me  out. 

Luke.     W^hat  do  yu  mean  ? 

Revenue.  I  mean  that  I've  been  trying  to  commit  suicide 
for  the  last  two  months,  but  I  haven't  had  the  nerve. 

Luke.     [Startled.]     Suicide  ? 

Revenue.  Yes.  Now  that  you're  willing  to  kill  me,  the 
problem  is  solved. 

Luke.     Why,  what  d'ye  want  to  commit  suicide  fer.'' 

Revenue.     I  just  want  to  stop  living,  that's  all. 

Luke.     Well,  yu  must  have  a  reason. 

Revenue.  No  special  reason — I  find  life  dull  and  I'd  like  to 
get  out  of  it. 

Luke.     Dull  ? 

Revenue.  Yes — I  hate  to  go  to  bed — I  hate  to  get  up — I 
don't  care  for  food — I  can't  drink  liquor — I  find  people  either 
malicious  or  dull — I  see  by  the  fate  of  my  acquaintances,  both 
men  and  women,  that  love  is  a  farce.  I  have  seen  fame  and  pref- 
erence come  to  those  who  least  deserved  them,  while  the  whole 
world  kicked  and  cuffed  the  worthy  ones.  The  craftier  schemer 
gets  the  most  money  and  glory,  while  the  fair-minded  dealer  is 
humiliated  in  the  bankruptcy  court.  In  the  name  of  the  law 
every  crime  is  committed;  in  the  name  of  religion  every  vice  is 
indulged;  in  the  name  of  education  greatest  ignorance  is  ram- 
pant. 

Luke.  I  don't  git  all  of  that,  but  I  reckon  you're  some  put 
out. 


248  ARTHUR    HOPKINS 

Revenue.  I  am.  The  world's  a  failure  .  .  .  what's  more, 
it's  a  farce.  I  don't  like  it  but  I  can't  change  it,  so  I'm  just  ach- 
ing for  a  chance  to  get  out  of  it.  .  .  .  [Approaching  Luke.] 
And  you,  my  dear  friend,  are  going  to  present  me  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

Luke.     Yes,  I  reckon  you'll  get  your  wish  now. 

Reveistue.  Good  ...  if  you  only  knew  how  I've  tried  to 
get  killed. 

Luke.     Well,  why  didn't  you  kill  yerself  ? 

Revenue.     I  was  afraid. 

Luke.     Afreed  o'  what — hurtin'  yourself.? 

Revenue.     No,  afraid  of  the  consequences. 

Luke.     Whad  d'ye  mean  ? 

Revenue.     Do  you  believe  in  another  life  after  this  one  ? 

Luke.     I  kan't  say  ez  I  ever  give  it  much  thought. 

Revenue.  Well,  don't — because  if  you  do  you'll  never  kill 
another  Crosby  .  .  .  not  even  a  revenue  officer. 

Luke.     'Tain't  that  bad,  is  it  ? 

Revenue.  Worse.  Twenty  times  I've  had  a  revolver  to  my 
head — crazy  to  die — and  then  as  my  finger  pressed  the  trigger 
I'd  get  a  terrible  dread — a  dread  that  I  was  plunging  into  worse 
terrors  than  this  world  ever  knew.  If  killing  were  the  end  it 
would  be  easy,  but  what  if  it's  only  the  beginning  of  something 
worse  ? 

Luke.     Well,  you  gotta  take  some  chances. 

Revenue.  I'll  not  take  that  one.  You  know,  Mr.  Luke,  life 
was  given  to  us  by  some  one  who  probably  never  intended  that 
we  should  take  it,  and  that  some  one  has  something  ready  for 
people  who  destroy  his  property.     That's  what  frightens  me. 

Luke.     You  do  too  much  worryin'  to  be  a  regular  suicide. 

Revenue.     Yes,  I  do.     That's  why  I  changed  my  plan. 

Luke.     What  plan  ? 

Revejtue.     My  plan  for  dying. 

Luke.     Oh,  then  you  didn't  give  up  the  idea  ? 


MOONSHINE  249 

Revenue.  No,  indeed — I'm  still  determined  to  die,  but  I'm 
going  to  make  some  one  else  responsible. 

Luke.  Oh — so  you  hain't  willing  to  pay  fer  yer  own  funeral 
music  ? 

Revenue.  No,  sir.  I'll  furnish  the  passenger,  but  some  one 
else  must  buy  the  ticket.  You  see,  when  I  finally  decided  I'd 
be  killed,  I  immediately  exposed  myself  to  every  danger  I  knew. 

Luke.     How  ? 

Revenue.  In  a  thousand  ways.  .  .  .  [Paiise.]  Did  you 
ever  see  an  automobile  ? 

Luke.     No. 

Revenue.  They  go  faster  than  steam  engines,  and  they 
don't  stay  on  tracks.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Fifth  Avenue,  New 
York? 

Luke.    No. 

Revenue.  Fifth  Avenue  is  jammed  with  automobiles,  eight 
deep  all  day  long.  People  being  killed  every  day.  I  crossed 
Fifth  Avenue  a  thousand  times  a  day,  every  day  for  weeks,  never 
once  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  always  praying  I'd  be  hit. 

Luke.    And  couldn't  yu  git  hit  ? 

Revenue.  [In  disgiist.]  No.  Automobiles  only  hit  people 
who  try  to  get  out  of  the  way.  [Pause.]  When  that  failed,  I 
frequented  the  lowest  dives  on  the  Bowery,  flashing  a  roll  of 
money  and  wearing  diamonds,  hoping  they'd  kill  me  for  them. 
They  stole  the  money  and  diamonds,  but  never  touched  me. 

Luke.     Couldn't  you  pick  a  fight.? 

Revenue.  I'm  coming  to  that.  You  know  up  North  they 
believe  that  a  man  can  be  killed  in  the  South  for  calling  another 
man  a  liar. 

Luke.     That's  right. 

Revenue.  It  is,  is  it?  Well,  I've  called  men  liars  from 
Washington  to  Atlanta,  and  I'm  here  to  tell  you  about  it. 

Luke.     They  must  a  took  pity  on  ye. 


250  ARTHUR    HOPKINS 

Revexue.  Do  you  know  Two  Gun  Jake  that  keeps  the  dive 
down  in  Henderson  ? 

Luke.  I  should  think  I  do.  .  .  .  Jake's  killed  enough  of 
'em. 

Revenue.     He's  a  bad  man,  ain't  he  ? 

Luke.     He's  no  trifler. 

Revenue.  I  wound  up  in  Jake's  place  two  nights  ago,  pre- 
tending to  be  drunk.     Jake  was  cursing  niggers. 

Luke.     He's  alius  doin'  that. 

Revenue.  So  I  elbowed  my  way  up  to  the  bar  and  an- 
nounced that  I  was  an  expert  in  the  discovery  of  nigger  blood 
.  .  .  could  tell  a  nigger  who  was  63-64ths  white. 

Luke.     Ye  kin  ? 

Revenue.  No,  I  can't,  but  I  made  them  believe  it.  I  then 
offered  to  look  them  over  and  tell  them  if  they  had  any  nigger 
blood  in  them.  A  few  of  them  sneaked  away,  but  the  rest  stood 
for  it.  I  passed  them  all  until  I  got  to  Two  Gun  Jake.  I  ex- 
amined his  eyeballs,  looked  at  his  finger-nails,  and  said,  "You're 
a  nigger." 

Luke.     An'  what  did  Jake  do  ? 

Revenue.  He  turned  pale,  took  me  into  the  back  room.  He 
said:  "Honest  to  God,  mister,  can  ye  see  nigger  blood  in  me.'" 
I  said:  "Yes."  "There's  no  mistake  about  it.^"  "Not  a  bit," 
I  answered.  "Good  God,"  he  said,  "I  always  suspected  it.'* 
Then  he  pulled  out  his  gun — 

Luke.    Eh  ...  eh? 

Revenue.     And  shot  himself. 

Luke.     Jake  shot  hisself !  .  .  .     Is  he  dead .' 

Revenue.  I  don't  know — I  was  too  disgusted  to  wait.  I 
wandered  around  until  I  thought  of  you  moonshiners  .  .  . 
scrambled  around  in  the  mountains  until  I  found  your  still.  I 
sat  on  it  and  waited  until  you  boys  showed  up,  and  here  I  am, 
and  j'ou're  going  to  kill  me. 

Luke.  [Pause.]  Ah,  so  ye  want  us  to  do  yer  killin'  fer  ye, 
do  ye  ? 


MOONSHINE  251 

Revenue.  You're  my  last  hope.  If  I  fail  this  time  I  may 
as  well  give  it  up. 

Luke.  [Takes  out  revolver,  turns  sidewise  and  secretly  removes 
cartridges  from  chamber.     Rises.]     What  wuz  that  noise  ? 

[Lays  revolver  on  table  and  steps  outside  of  door.     Revenue 

looks  at  revolver,  apparently  without  interest. 
[Luke  cautiously  enters  doorway  and  expresses  surprise  at 
seeing  Revenue  making  no  attempt  to  secure  revolver. 
Feigning  excitement,  goes  to  table,  picks  up  gun. 

Luke.  I  reckon  I'm  gettin'  careless,  leavin'  a  gun  layin' 
around  here  that-a-way.     Didn't  you  see  it  ? 

Reventje.     Yes. 

Luke.     Well,  why  didn't  ye  grab  it  ? 

Revenue.     What  for  ? 

Luke.     To  git  the  drop  on  me. 

Revenue.  Can't  you  understand  what  I've  been  telling  you, 
mister  ?     I  don't  want  the  drop  on  you. 

Luke.  Well,  doggone  if  I  don't  believe  yer  tellin'  me  the 
truth.  Thought  I'd  just  see  what  ye'd  do.  Ye  see,  I  emptied 
it  first.  [Opens  up  gun. 

Revenue.     That  wasn't  necessary. 

Luke.     Well,  I  reckon  ye  better  git  along  out  o'  here,  mister. 

Revenue.     You  don't  mean  you're  weakening  ? 

Luke.  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  do  your  killin'  fer  you.  If  ye 
hain't  sport  enough  to  do  it  yerself,  I  reckon  ye  kin  go  on  suf- 
ferin'. 

Revenue.  But  I  told  you  why  I  don't  want  to  do  it.  One 
murder  more  or  less  means  nothing  to  you.  You  don't  care 
anything  about  the  hereafter. 

Luke.  Mebbe  I  don't,  but  there  ain't  no  use  my  takin'  any 
more  chances  than  I  have  to.  And  what's  more,  mister,  from 
what  you  been  tellin'  me  I  reckon  there's  a  charm  on  you,  and 
I  ain't  goin'  to  take  no  chances  goin'  agin  charms. 

Revenue.     So  you're  going  to  go  back  on  me  ? 

Luke.     Yes.  siree. 


252  ARTHUR    HOPKINS 

Revenue.  Well,  maybe  some  of  the  other  boys  will  be  will- 
ing.    I'll  wait  till  they  come. 

Luke.  The  other  boys  ain't  goin'  to  see  you.  You're  a 
leavin'  this  yer  place  right  now — now !  It  won't  do  no  good. 
You  may  as  well  go  peaceable;  ye  ain't  got  no  right  to  expect 
us  to  bear  yer  burdens. 

Revenue.     Damn  it  all !    I've  spoiled  it  again. 

Luke.     I  reckon  you  better  make  up  yer  mind  to  go  on  livin'. 

Revenue.     That  looks  like  the  only  way  out. 

Luke.  Come  on,  I'll  let  you  ride  my  horse  to  town.  It's  the 
only  one  we  got,  so  yu  can  leave  it  at  Two  Gun  Jake's,  and  one 
o'  the  boys'll  go  git  it,  or  I  reckon  I'll  go  over  myself  and  see  if 
Jake  made  a  job  of  it. 

Revenue.     I  suppose  it's  no  use  arguing  with  you. 

Luke.    Not  a  bit.     Come  on,  you. 

Revenue.  Well,  I'd  like  to  leave  my  address  so  if  you  ever 
come  to  New  York  you  can  look  me  up. 

Luke.     'Tain't  likely  I'll  ever  come  to  New  York. 

Revenue.  Well,  I'll  leave  it,  anyhow.  Have  you  a  piece 
of  paper  ? 

Luke.     Paper  what  you  write  on  ?    Never  had  none,  mister. 

Revenue.  [Looking  about  room,  sees  Jim  Dunn's  picture  on 
wall,  goes  to  it,  takes  it  down.]  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  put  it  on 
the  back  of  Jim  Dunn's  picture.  [Placing  picture  on  table,  begins 
to  print.]  I'll  print  it  for  you,  so  it'll  be  easy  to  read.  My  ad- 
dress is  here,  so  if  you  change  your  mind  you  can  send  for  me. 

Luke.  'Tain't  likely — come  on.  [Both  go  to  doorway — Luke 
extends  hand.  Revenue  takes  it.]  Good-by,  mister — cheer  up 
.  .  .  there's  the  horse. 

Revenue.     Good-by.  [Shaking  Luke's  hand. 

Luke.  Don't  be  so  glum,  mister.  Lemme  hear  you  laff  jist 
onct  before  yu  go.  [Revenue  begins  to  laugh  weakly.]  Aw, 
come  on,  laff  out  with  it  hearty.  [Revenue  laughs  louder.] 
Heartier  yit. 


MOONSHINE  253 

[Revenue  is  now  shouting  his  laughter,  and  is  heard  laugh- 
ing until  hoof-beats  of  his  horse  die  down  in  the  distance, 
[Luke  watches  for  a  moment,  then  returns  to  table — takes  a 
drink — picks  up  picture — turns  it  around  several  times 
before  getting  it  right — then  begins  to  study.     In  attempt- 
ing to  make  out  the  name  he  slowly  traces  in  the  air  with 
his  index  finger  a  capital  "J" — then  mutters  "J-J-J,* 
then  describes  a  letter  "/" — mutters  ''I-I-I,''  then  a  letter 
''M''— muttering    ''M-M-M,    J-I-M—J-I-M—JIM." 
In  the  same  way  describes  and  mutters  D-U-N-N. 
Luke.     Jim  Dunn !     By  God !     [He  rushes  to  corner,  grabs 
shot-gun,  runs  to  doorway,  raises  gun  in  direction  stranger  has  gone 
— looks  intently — then  slowly  lets  gun  fall  to  his  side,  and  scans  the 
distance  with  his  hand  shadowing  his  eyes — steps  inside — slowly 
puts  gun  in  corner — seats  himself  at  table.]     Jim  Dunn ! — and  he 
begged  me  to  kill  'im ! ! 


MODESTY 

BY 

PAUL  HERVIEU 


Modesty  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Barrett  H.  Clark,  the 
translator  of  the  play  from  the  French,  and  of  Samuel  French,  publisher, 
New  York  City.  All  rights  reserved.  For  permission  to  perform,  ad- 
dress Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City. 


PAUL  HERVIEU 

Paul  Hervieu,  one  of  the  foremost  of  contemporary  French 
dramatists,  was  born  in  1857  at  Neuilly,  near  Paris.  Although 
he  prepared  for  the  bar,  having  passed  the  examination  at  twenty, 
and  practised  his  profession  for  a  few  years,  he  soon  set  to  writing 
short  stories  and  novels  which  appeared  in  the  early  eighties. 
The  Nippers,  in  1890,  established  his  reputation  as  a  dramatist. 
The  remainder  of  his  life  was  given  to  writing  for  the  stage.  In 
1900  he  was  elected  to  the  French  Academy.  He  died  October 
15,  1915. 

In  addition  to  The  Nippers,  Hervieu's  best-known  long  plays 
are  The  Passing  of  the  Torch,  The  Labyrinth,  and  Knoio  Thyself. 

Modesty  is  his  well-known  one-act  play.  In  subtlety  of  tech- 
nic  and  in  delicacy  of  touch  it  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
French  one-act  plays.  Its  humor  and  light,  graceful  satire  are 
noteworthy. 


PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

Hexriette 

Jacques 

Albert 


MODESTY 

TIME:  The  present. 

SCENE:  A  drawing-room.  Entrance,  C;  sofa,  chairs^  loriting- 
desk.  J ACQVBS  and  Henribtte  enter  C,  from  dinner.  Hen- 
RiETTE  in  ball  costume,  Jacques  in  evening  dress.  They 
come  down  C. 

Henriette.     What  is  it  ?     Is  it  so  terribly  embarrassing  ? 

Jacques.     You  can  easily  guess. 

Henriette.  You're  so  long-winded.  You  make  me  weary 
— come  to  the  point. 

Jacques.  I'll  risk  all  at  a  stroke —  My  dear  Henriette,  we 
are  cousins.  I  am  unmarried,  you — a  widow.  Will  you — will 
you  be  my  wife  ? 

Henriette.  Oh,  my  dear  Jacques,  what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?  We  were  such  good  friends  !  And  now  you're  going  to  be 
angry. 

Jacques.    Why  ? 

Henriette.  Because  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  the  sort  ot 
answer  you'd  like. 

Jacques.  You  don't — you  don't  think  I'd  make  a  good  hus- 
band ? 

Henriette.    Frankly,  no. 

Jacques.     I  don't  please  you  ? 

Henriette.  As  a  cousin  you  are  charming;  as  a  husband  you 
would  be  quite  impossible. 

Jacques.     What  have  you  against  me? 

Henriette.  Nothing  that  you're  to  blame  for.  It  is  merely 
the  fault  of  my  character;  thai  forces  me  to  refuse  you. 

259 


260  PAUL    HERVIEU 

Jacques.     But  I  can't  see  why  you ? 

Henriette.  [With  an  air  of  great  importance.]  A  great 
change  is  taking  place  in  the  hearts  of  us  women.  We  have  re- 
solved henceforward  not  to  be  treated  as  dolls,  but  as  creatures 
of  reason.  As  for  me,  I  am  most  unfortunate,  for  nobody  ever 
did  anything  but  flatter  me.  I  have  always  been  too  self-sat- 
isfied, too 

Jacques.  You  have  always  been  the  most  charming  of 
women,  the  most 

Henriette.  Stop!  It's  exactly  that  sort  of  exaggeration 
that's  begun  to  make  me  so  unsure  of  myself.  I  want  you  to 
understand  once  for  all,  Jacques,  I  have  a  conscience,  and,  fur- 
thermore, it  is  beginning  to  develop.  I  have  taken  some  im- 
portant resolutions. 

Jacques.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Henriette.  I  have  resolved  to  better  myself,  to  raise  my 
moral  and  intellectual  standards,  and  to  do  that  I  must  be 
guided,  criticised 

Jacques.  But  you  already  possess  every  imaginable  quality ! 
You  are  charitable,  cultured,  refined 

Henriette.     [Annoyed.]    Please ! 

[Turns  away  and  sits  on  settee.    Jacques  addresses  her 
from  behind  chair. 

Jacques.     You  are  discreet,  witty 

Henriette.  The  same  old  compliments!  Everybody  tells 
me  that.     I  want  to  be  preached  to,  contradicted,  scolded 

Jacques.     You  could  never  stand  that. 

Henriette.  Yes,  I  could.  I  should  be  happy  to  profit  by 
the  criticism.     It  would  inspire  me. 

Jacques.  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  who  has  the  audacity  to 
criticise  you  to  your  face 

Henriette.  That  is  enough!  I  trust  you  are  aware  that 
you  are  not  the  person  fit  to  exercise  this  influence  over  me  ? 

Jacques.  How  could  I  ?  Everything  about  you  pleases  me. 
It  can  never  be  otherwise. 


MODESTY  261 

Henriette.  How  interesting !  That's  the  very  reason  I  re- 
jected your  proposal.  I  sha'n't  marry  until  I  am  certain  that  I 
shall  not  be  continually  pestered  with  compliments  and  flattery 
and  submission.  The  man  who  marries  me  shall  make  it  his 
business  to  remind  me  of  my  shortcomings,  to  correct  all  my 
mistakes.  He  must  give  me  the  assurance  that  I  am  continually 
bettering  myself. 

Jacques.    And  this — husband — have  you  found  him  already  ? 

Henriette.    What —  ?    Oh,  who  knows  ? 

Jacques.     Perhaps  it's — Albert  ? 

Henriette.     Perhaps  it  is — what  of  it  ? 

Jacques.    Really ! 

Henriette.     You  want  me  to  speak  frankly  ? 

Jacques.    Of  course. 

Henriette.  Then — you  wouldn't  be  annoyed  if  I  said  some- 
thing nice  about  Albert  ? 

[Jacques  brings  down  c.  chair  which  is  by  desk,  facing 
Henriette. 

Jacques.     Why,  he's  your  friend ! 

Henriette.    Oh !    So  you,  too,  have  a  good  opinion  of  him  ? 

Jacques.     Certainly. 

Henriette.     Well,  what  would  you  say  of  him  ? 

Jacques.  [Trying  to  be  fair.]  I'd  trust  him  with  money — 
I've  never  heard  he  was  a  thief. 

Henriette.     But  in  other  ways  ? 

Jacques.  [Still  conscientious.]  I  believe  him  to  be  somewhat 
— somewhat 

Henriette.     Wilful  ?    Headstrong  ? 

Jacques.     Um — uncultured,  let  us  say. 

Henriette.  As  you  like — but  for  my  part,  I  find  that  that 
air  of  his  inspires  absolute  confidence.  He  knows  how  to  be 
severe  at  times 

Jacques.  You're  mistaken  about  that;  that's  only  simple 
brute  force.  Go  to  the  Zoo :  the  ostrich,  the  boa  constrictor,  the 
rhinoceros,  all  produce  the  same  effect  on  you  as  your  Albert 


262  PAUL    HERVIEU 

Henriette.  My  Albert  ?  My  Albert  ?  Oh,  I  don't  appro- 
priate him  so  quickly  as  all  that.  His  qualifications  as  censor 
are  not  yet  entirely  demonstrated. 

[Jacques  rises  and  approaches  Henriette,  who  maintains 
an  air  of  cold  dignity. 

Jacques.     For  heaven's  sake,  Henriette,  stop  this  nonsense ! 

Henbiette.     What  nonsense? 

Jacques.  Tell  me  you  are  only  playing  with  me.  That  you 
only  wanted  to  put  my  love  to  the  test !  To  make  me  jealous  ! 
To  torture  me !  You  have  succeeded.  Stop  it,  for  heaven's 
sake 

Henriette.  My  dear  friend,  I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  I  wish 
I  could  help  you,  but  I  cannot.  I  have  given  you  a  perfect  de- 
scription of  the  husband  I  want,  and  I  am  heart-broken  that  you 
bear  so  remote  a  resemblance  to  him. 

Jacques.     Only  promise  you  will  think  over  your  decision. 

Henriette.     It  is  better  to  stop  right  now. 

Jacques.     Don't  send  me  away  like  this.     Don't 

Henriette.  I  might  give  you  false  hopes.  I  have  only  to 
tell  you  that  I  shall  never  consent  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who 
cannot  be  the  severest  of  censors. 

Jacques.     [Kneeling.]     I  beg  you  ! 

Henriette.  No,  no,  no,  Jacques !  Spare  me  that.  [A  tele- 
phone rings  in  the  next  room.]     There's  the  'phone 

Jacques.     Don't  go ! 

[Henriette  rises  hastily  and  goes  to  door.     Jacques  tries 
for  a  movient  to  stop  her. 

Henriette.  I  must  go.  Go  away,  I  tell  you.  I'll  be  furious 
if  I  find  3^ou  here  when  I  come  back. 

Jacques.     Henriette ! 

Henriette.  [Coming  down  L.  to  table.]  Not  now !  Please, 
Jacques.     [Exit.] 

Jacques.     I  can't  leave  it  that  way.     I  am  the  husband  who 


MODESTY  «63 

will  make  her  happy.     But  how?     That  is  the  question.    [Pause.] 
Ah,  Albert ! 

[Enter  Albebt.     He  shakes  hands  icilh  Jacques. 

Albert.     How  are  you,  rival  ? 

Jacques.     [Gravely.]     My  friend,  we  are  no  longer  rivals. 

Albert.    How's  that? 

Jacques.  I  hav^e  just  had  a  talk  with  Henriette;  she  refuses 
to  marry  either  one  of  us. 

Albert.     Did  she  mention  me  ? 

Jacques.     Casually. 

[Both  sit  down,  Albert  on  sofa,  Jacques  on  chair  near  it, 

Albert.     What  did  she  say  ? 

Jacques.     Oh,  I  wouldn't  repeat  it;  it  wouldn't  be  friendly. 

Albert.     I  must  know. 

Jacques.  Very  well,  then — she  said  that  you  had  not  suc- 
ceeded— nor  had  I — to  find  the  way  to  her  heart.  Between  you 
and  me,  we've  got  a  high-minded  woman  to  deal  with,  a  philoso- 
pher who  detests  flattery.  It  seems  you  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  paying  her  compliments 

Albert.     I  never  pay  compliments. 

Jacques.  Whatever  you  did,  she  didn't  like  It.  Moreover — 
— since  you  want  the  whole  truth — you  seem  to  her  a  bit — ridicu- 
lous. 

Albert.     Pardon  ? 

Jacques.  The  very  word:  ridiculous.  She  wants  a  husband 
who  will  act  as  a  sort  of  conscience  pilot.  Evidently,  you  haven't 
appealed  to  her  in  that  capacity. 

Albert.     Sometimes  I  used  to  be  rather  sharp  with  her 

Jacques.  You  did  it  too  daintily,  perhaps;  you  lacked  sever- 
ity. I'll  wager  you  smiled,  instead  of  scowled — that  would  have 
been  fatal ! 

Albert.     I  don't  understand. 

Jacques.     Henriette  is  a  singular  woman;  to  get  her,  you 


264  PAUL    HERVIEU 

have  to  tell  her  that  you  don't  like  her — her  pride  demands  it. 
Tell  her  all  her  bad  qualities,  straight  from  the  shoulder. 

Albert.  [Feeling  himself  equal  to  the  task.]  Don't  worry 
about  that !  [Rises  and  walks  about.]  I  know  women  love  to 
be  told  things  straight  out. 

Jacques.  I'm  not  the  man  for  that;  nor  are  you,  I  sup- 
pose ? 

Albert.  No?  Jacques,  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you;  you've 
done  me  a  good  turn 

Jacques.     Don't  mention  it 

Albert.     You  want  to  do  me  one  more  favor  ? 

Jacques.     [Devotedly.]     Anj^thing  you  like  ! 

Albert.  Promise  me  you'll  never  let  Henriette  know  that 
you  told  me  this  ? 

Jacques.     I  promise;  but  why.? 

Albert.  You  know  she  has  to  understand  that  my  behavior 
toward  her  is  in  character.     Natural,  you  see. 

Jacques.     Oh,  you're  going  at  it  strenuously. 

Albert.     I  am. 

Jacques.     Your  decision  honors  you. 

Albert.  Let's  not  have  Henriette  find  us  together.  Would 
you  mind  disappearing  ? 

Jacques.     With  pleasure.     I'll  look  in  later  and  get  the  news, 
[Jacques  rises. 

Albert.     Thanks,  Jacques. 

Jacques.     Good-by,  Albert. 

[Exits  after  shaking  hands  cordially  with  Albert. 

Henriette.  [Re-entering  as  Albert  assumes  a  rather  severe 
attitude.]     How  are  you  ?     [Pau^e.]     Have  you  seen  Jacques  ? 

Albert.  [With  a  determined  air.]  No,  Henriette.  Thank 
God! 

Henriette.    Why  ? 

Albert.  Because  it  pains  me  to  see  men  in  your  presence 
whom  you  care  nothing  for. 


MODESTY  ^65 

Henriette.     [Delighted.]     You  don't  like  that  ? 

[Sitting  down  on  sofa. 

Albert.     No,  I  don't.    And  I'd  like  to  tell  you 

Henriette.     About  my  relations  with  Jacques  ? 

Albert.     Oh,  he's  not  the  only  one. 

Hexriette.     Heaps  of  others,  I  suppose  ? 

Albert.  [Sits  on  chair  near  sofa.]  You  suppose  correctly; 
heaps. 

Henriette.    Really  ? 

Albert.     You  are  a  coquette. 

Henriette.     You  think  so  ? 

Albert.     I  am  positive. 

Henriette.     I  suppose  I  displease  you  in  other  ways,  too  ? 

Albert.     In  a  great  many  other  ways. 

Henriette.  [Really  delighted.]  How  confidently  you  say 
that! 

Albert.     So  much  the  worse  if  you  don't  like  it ! 

Henriette.  Quite  the  contrary,  my  dear  Albert;  you  can't 
imagine  how  you  please  me  when  you  talk  like  that.  It's  per- 
fectly adorable. 

Albert.  It  makes  very  little  difference  to  me  whether  I 
please  you  or  not.  I  speak  according  to  my  temperament.  Pw- 
haps  it  is  a  bit  authoritative,  but  I  can't  help  that. 

Henriette.     You  are  superb. 

Albert.     Oh,  no.     I'm  just  myself. 

Henriette.     Oh,  if  you  were  only  the 

Albert.  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  you  were  about  to 
say,  but  I'll  guarantee  that  there's  not  a  more  inflexible  temper 
than  mine  in  Paris. 

Henriette.  I  can  easily  believe  it.  [Pause.]  Now  tell  me 
in  what  way  you  think  I'm  coquettish. 

[Sitting  on  edge  of  sofa  in  an  interested  attitude.     Albert 
takes  out  cigarette,  lights  and  smokes  it. 


266  PAUL    HERVIEU 

Albert.  That's  easy;  for  instance,  when  you  go  to  the  thea- 
tre, to  a  reception,  to  the  races.  As  soon  as  you  arrive  the  men 
flock  about  in  dozens;  those  who  don't  know  you  come  to  be 
introduced.  You're  the  talking-stock  of  society.  Now  I  should 
be  greatly  obliged  if  you  would  tell  me  to  what  you  attribute 
this  notoriety  ? 

Henriette.  [Modestly.]  Well,  I  should  attribute  it  to  the 
fact  that  I  am — agreeable,  and  pleasant 

Albert.     There  are  many  women  no  less  so. 

Henriette.  [Summoning  up  all  her  modesty  to  reply.]  You 
force  me  to  recognize  the  fact 

Albert.  And  I  know  many  women  fully  as  pleasant  as  you 
who  don't  flaunt  their  favors  in  the  face  of  everybody;  they  pre- 
serve some  semblance  of  dignity,  a  certain  air  of  aloof  distinction 
that  it  would  do  you  no  harm  to  acquire. 

Henriette.  [With  a  gratitude  that  is  conscious  of  its  hounds.] 
Thanks,  thanks  so  much.  [Drawing  hack  to  a  corner  of  the  sofa.] 
I  am  deeply  obliged  to  j'ou 

Albert.     Not  at  all. 

Henriette.  In  the  future  I  shall  try  to  behave  more  deco- 
rously. 

Albert.     Another  thing 

Henriette.  [The  first  signs  of  impatience  begin  to  appear.] 
What  ?     Another  thing  to  criticise  .'^ 

Albert.     A  thousand  !  [Setiling  himself  comfortably. 

Henriette.     Well,  hurry  up. 

Albert.  You  must  rid  yourself  of  your  excessive  and  ridicu- 
lous school-girl  sentimentality. 

Henriette.  I  wonder  just  on  what  you  base  your  statement. 
Would  you  oblige  me  so  far  as  to  explain  that  ? 

Albert.  W^ith  pleasure.  I  remember  one  day  in  the  country 
you  were  in  tears  because  a  poor  little  mouse  had  fallen  into  the 
claws  of  a  wretched  cat;  two  minutes  later  you  were  sobbing  be- 
cause the  poor  cat  choked  in  swallowing  the  wretched  little  mouse. 


MODESTY  267 

Heneiette.  That  was  only  my  kindness  to  dumb  animals. 
Is  it  wrong  to  be  kind  to  dumb  animals  ? 

[She  is  about  to  rise  ivhen  Albert  stops  her  with  a  gesture. 

Albert.  That  would  be  of  no  consequence,  if  it  weren't  that 
you  were  of  so  contradictory  a  nature  that  you  engage  in  the 
emptiest,  most  frivolous  conversations,  the  most 

Henriette.  [Slightly  disdainful.]  Ah,  you  are  going  too  far  ! 
You  make  me  doubt  your  power  of  analysis.  I  am  interested 
only  in  noble  and  high  things 

Albert.  And  yet  as  soon  as  the  conversation  takes  a  serious 
turn,  it's  appalling  to  see  you;  you  yawn  and  look  bored  to  ex- 
tinction. 

Henriette.     There  you  are  right — partly. 

Albert.     You  see ! 

Henriette.  [Sharp  and  even  antagonistic]  Yes,  I  have  that 
unfortunate  gift  of  understaniiing  things  before  people  have  fin- 
ished explaining  them.  While  the  others  are  waiting  for  the 
explanation,  I  can't  wait,  and  I  fly  on  miles  ahead 

Albert.  Hm — that  sounds  probable;  I  sha'n't  say  anything 
more  about  that  just  now.  But  while  I'm  on  the  subject,  I  have 
more  than  once  noticed  that  you  are  guilty  of  the  worst  vice 
woman  ever  possessed 

Henriette.     And  what,  if  you  please  ? 

Albert.     Vanity. 

Henriette.     I  vain  ?     Oh,  you're  going  too  far ! 

Albert.  [Unruffled.]  Not  a  word !  Every  time  I  tell  you  a 
fault,  you  twist  it  round  to  your  own  advantage.  Whereas  you 
are  really  worse 

Henriette.  [Rising  and  gathering  her  skirts  about  her  with 
virtuous  indignation.]  You  are  rude  !  I  suppose  you  would  find 
fault  with  me  if  I  considered  myself  more  polite  than  the  person 
whom  I  have  the  honor  to  address  ? 

Albert.     I  hope  you  don't  intend  that  remark  as  personal. 

Henriette.     I  certainly  do. 


268  PAUL    HERVIEU 

[She  crosses  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage  and  sits  doion. 
Albert  rises  and  goes  up  to  her. 

Albert.     Henriette !     No !     [Laughing.]     I  see  your  trick. 

Hexriette.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Albert.  You  can't  deceive  me  by  pretending  to  be  angry. 
You  wanted  to  see  whether  I  could  withstand  your  temper.  Let 
us  now  proceed  to  the  next  chapter:  your  manner  of  dressing. 

Hexriette.  [Now  really  outraged.]  My  manner  of  dressing  ? 
You  dare ! 

[Henriette  crosses  L.  Fronts  Albert  following  her. 

Albert.     Yes,  that  will  be  enough  for  to-day 

Henriette.     And  then  you'll  begin  again  to-morrow ! 

Albert.     Yes. 

Henriette.  And  do  you  think  for  one  minute  that  I'll  listen 
to  you  while  you  insult  me  to  my  face  ?  You  are  the  vain  one, 
to  think  you  can  come  to  that !  You  are  the  frivolous  one,  you 
are  the 

Albert.     [Slightly  perturbed.]     Be  careful  what  you  say  ! 

Henriette.  I'll  take  care  of  that.  Let  me  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  detestable  cynic.  You  are  disgustingly  personal;  always 
dwelling  on  details,  on  the  least 

Albert.     Which  is  as  much  as  calling  me  a  fool  ? 

Henriette.  Just  about.  You  would  be  if  you  didn't  read 
your  morning  paper  regularly;  so  regularly  that  I  know  in  ad- 
vance exactly  what  you  are  going  to  say  to  me  during  the  day. 

Albert.     Why  not  call  me  a  parrot  ? 

Henriette.  That  would  flatter  you,  for  you  don't  speak  as 
well  as  a  parrot;  a  parrot's  memory  never  gets  clouded,  a  parrot 
has  at  least  the  common  politeness  to 

Albert.  [Between  his  teeth.]  I  won't  stand  for  this.  I  won- 
der how  you  could  have  endured  me  so  long  if  you  thought  me 
such  a  fool. 

Henriette.     I  believed  you  harmless. 

Albert.     Are  you  aware  that  you  have  wounded  me  cruelly  ? 


MODESTY  269 

Henriette.  You  have  wounded  me.  Thank  heaven,  though, 
we  had  this  discussion !  Now  I'll  know  how  to  conduct  myself 
toward  you  in  the  future. 

Albert.  Thank  heaven  for  tlie  same  thing !  It  was  high 
time !  I  grieve  to  think  that  only  last  night  I  had  full}^  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife ! 

Henriette.  My  dear  friend,  if  you  ever  do  so,  I  shall  show 
you  the  door  immediately. 

[Enter  Jacques  hurriedly.    Henriette  runs  to  him  as  for 
protection. 

Jacques.     What's  all  this  noise  ?    What's  the  matter  ? 

Henriette.     Oh,  Jacques — I'm  so  glad  you've  come. 

Albert.  Just  in  time !  You  put  an  end  to  our  pleasant  lit- 
tle t#te-a-tete. 

Jacques.     But  what's  happened  ? 

Henriette.     W^ell,  monsieur  here 

Albert.     No,  it  was  mademoiselle  who 


[Henriette  and  Albert  each  take  an  arm  of  Jacques 
and  bring  him  down-stage  C.  His  attention  is  constantly 
shifting  from  one  to  the  other,  as  they  address  him  in 
turn. 

Henriette.     Just  think,  Jacques 

Albert.     Jacques,  she  had  the  audacity  to 

Henriette.     Stop !     I'm  going  to  tell  him  first 

Jacques.  You're  both  too  excited  to  explain  anything.  Al- 
bert, you  take  a  little  stroll  and  cool  off. 

Albert.     [Retreating  toward  the  door.]     Charmed. 

Henriette.     Then  I  can  draw  a  free  breath. 

Jacques.     [To  Albert.]     I'll  fix  up  things  while  you're  away. 

Albert.     [To  both.]     I  won't  give  in. 

Henriette.     Neither  will  I. 

Jacques.     Tut,  tut ! 

Albert.     Good-day,  mademoiselle. 

Henriette.     Good-day. 


270  PAUL    HERVIEU 

Jacques.     Good-day,  Albert. 
[Exit  Albert. 

Henriette.     Thank  goodness,  we're  rid  of  him  ! 

Jacques.     [Sympathetically.]     Tell  me  all  about  it. 

Henriette.  [Sits  down  on  sofa,  inviting  Jacques  by  a  gesture 
to  do  the  same.  lie  sits  beside  her.]  That  man  invented  the  most 
abominable  things  about  me;  criticised  me  to  my  face ! 

Jacques.     He  did ! 

Henriette.  It  was  so  ridiculous — makes  me  sick  to  think 
about  it. 

Jacques.  My  dear  Henriette,  don't  think  about  it.  Albert 
must  have  behaved  like  a  brute  to  make  you  so  angry. 

Henriette.  Yes,  don't  you  think  so?  You  think  I'm 
right  ? 

Jacques.     [Loyally.]     Of  course  I  do. 

Henriette.  [At  her  ease  once  more.]  You  encourage  me, 
Jacques. 

Jacques.  When  I  saw  you  were  angry  I  said  to  myself  at 
once:  "Henriette  is  right." 

Henriette.     Really  ? 

Jacques.  I  said  it  because  I  knew  you  were  by  nature  peace- 
loving  and  considerate 

Henriette.  [With  profound  conviction.]  Well,  I  think  that's 
the  least  that  could  be  said  of  me. 

Jacques.  In  any  event,  you  are  always  tactful,  you  al- 
ways  

Henriette.     You  know  me,  Jacques  ! 

Jacques.  I  flatter  myself.  I  felt  instinctively  you  couldn't 
be  wrong.  You  have  always  been  so  admirably  poised,  so  un- 
failingly considerate. 

Henriette.  [With  perfect  simplicity.]  Frankly  now,  do  I 
ever  lose  my  temper  with  you  ? 

Jacques.  [In  good  faith.]  Never.  With  me  you  are  always 
patient,  gracious,  modest 


MODESTY  271 

Hbnriette.     But  I  remember,  a  little  while  ago,  I  made  you 
suffer 

Jacques.     Yes,  I  was  unhappy.     But  "if  after  every  storm 
comes  such  a  calm" 

Henriette.     It  was  all  my  fault.     You  understand  me;  you 
are  truly  a  friend. 

Jacques.     Nothing  more  ? 

[Rising,  hut  standing  near  her.  Henriette  hliishingly 
looks  down  at  her  shoe. 

Henriette.     Oh 

Jacques.     Prove  that  you  mean  that  sincerely. 

Henriette.     What  hav^e  I  to  do  ?  [Same  business. 

Jacques.     Place  your  future  in  ray  hands;  marry  me. 

Henriette,     [With  downcast  eyes.]     I  was  just  thinking  about 
it.  [Same  business,  but  with  repressed  joy. 

Jacques.     [About  to  embrace  her.]     Ah ! 

Henriette.     Wait ! 

[Complete  metamorphosis.  Her  joy  is  still  present,  but  it 
has  taken  on  a  playful,  serio-comic  aspect.  Rising  and 
putting  her  hand  in  his. 

Jacques.     W^hy  do  you  hesitate  ? 

Henriette.     Jacques,  do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  not 
long  ago  ? 

Jacques.     Yes. 

Henriette.     In  spite  of  that,  are  you  quite  sure  that  I  am 
not  vain  or  coquettish  ? 

Jacques.     I  am  certain. 

Henriette.     You  are  also  firmly  resolved  to  be  my  moral 
guide,  critic,  helper.? 

Jacques.     [Stolid  as  ever.]     I  am. 

Henriette.     I  make  one  condition. 

Jacques.     Name  it. 

Henriette.     On  your  word  of  honor  ? 

Jacques.     On  my  word  of  honor.     Tell  me. 


272  PAUL    HERVIEU 

Henriette.     Will  3^ou  swear  to  tell  me,  without  pity,  every 
time  you  find  me  at  fault  ?     Swear. 
Jacques.     I  swear. 

Henriette.     Then  you  have  my  promise. 
Jacques.     [As  they  embrace.]    Dearest ! 

CURTAIN 


THE  DEACON'S  HAT 

BY 

JEANNETTE  MARKS 


The  Deacon  s  Eat  is  reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with  Miss  Jean- 
nette  Marks  and  with  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston,  the  publisher 
of  Three  Welsh  Plays,  from  which  this  play  is  taken.  All  rights  reserved. 
For  permission  to  perform  address  the  author  in  care  of  the  pubUsher. 


JEANNETTE  MARKS 

Jeannette  Marks,  well-known  essayist,  poet,  and  playwright, 
was  born  in  1875  at  Chattanooga,  Tennessee,  but  spent  her  early 
life  in  Philadelphia,  where  her  father,  the  late  William  Dennis 
Marks,  was  professor  of  dynamics  in  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania and  president  of  the  Edison  Electric  Light  Company.  She 
attended  school  in  Dresden,  and  in  1900  was  graduated  from 
Wellesley  College.  She  obtained  her  master's  degree  from 
Wellesley  m  1903.  Her  graduate  studies  were  continued  at  the 
Bodleian  Library  and  at  the  British  Museum.  Since  1901  she 
has  been  on  the  staff  of  the  English  Department  at  Mount  Hol- 
yoke  College,  South  Hadley,  Massachusetts.  Her  chief  courses 
are  Nineteenth  Century  Poetry  and  Play-writing. 

Miss  Marks's  mterest  in  Welsh  life  is  the  result  of  her  hiking 
several  summers  among  the  Welsh  hills  and  valleys.  She  be- 
came intimately  acquainted  with  Welsh  peasant  life.  It  is  said 
that  Edward  Knobloch,  well-known  dramatist,  on  one  of  her 
homeward  voyages  from  one  of  her  summer  outings  m  W^ales, 
pointed  out  to  Miss  Marks  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  the  ma- 
terial she  had  thus  acquired.  Three  Welsh  Plays  was  the  result. 
Two  of  these  plays,  without  the  author's  knowledge,  were  entered 
in  1911  for  the  Welsh  National  Theatre  prize  contest.  To  her 
credit,  the  plays  won  the  prize.  The  complete  volume  appeared 
m  1917. 

The  Deacon's  Hat  is  a  fine  study  of  the  life  of  the  common  folk 
of  Wales. 


CHARACTERS 

Deacon  Roberts,  a  stout,  oldish  Welshman 

Hugh  Williams,   an  earnest,  visionary  young  man  who  owns 
Y  Gegin 

Neli  Williams,  his  capable  wife 

Mrs.  Jones,  the  Wash,  a  stout,  kindly  woman  who  wishes  to  buy 
soap 

Mrs.  Jenkins,  the  Midwife,  after  pins  for  her  latest  baby 

Tom  Morris,  the  Sheep,  who  comes  to  buy  tobacco  and  remains 
to  pray 


THE  DEACON'S  HAT* 

SCENE:  A  little  shop  called  Y  Gegin  {The  Kitchen),  in  Bala^ 

North  Wales. 
TIME :  Monday  morning  at  half -past  eleven. 

To  the  right  is  the  counter  of  Y  Gegin,  set  out  with  a  bountiful  sup- 
ply of  groceries;  behind  the  counter  are  grocery -stocked  shelves. 
Upon  the  counter  is  a  good-sized  enamel-ware  bowl  filled  with 
herring  pickled  in  brine  and  leek,  also  a  basket  of  fresh  eggs, 
a  jar  of  pickles,  some  packages  of  codfish,  a  half  dozen  loaves 
of  bread,  a  big  round  cheese,  several  pounds  of  butter  wrapped 
in  print  paper,  etc.,  etc. 

To  the  left  are  a  cheerful  glowing  fire  and  ingle. 

At  the  back  center  is  a  door;  between  the  door  and  the  fire  stands  a 
grandfather's  clock  with  a  shining  brass  face.  Between  the 
clock  and  the  door,  back  centre,  is  a  small  tridarn  [Welsh 
dresser]  and  a  chair.  From  the  rafters  hang  flitches  of  bacon, 
hams,  bunches  of  onions,  herbs,  etc.  On  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place are  latticed  windows,  showing  a  glimpse  of  the  street. 
Before  the  fire  is  a  small,  round,  three-legged  table;  beside  it  a 
tall,  straight-backed  chair. 

Between  the  table  and  left  is  a  door  which  is  the  entrance  to  Y  Gegin 
and  from  which,  on  a  metal  elbow,  dangles  a  large  bell. 

At  rise  of  curtain  Hugh  Williams  enters  at  back  centre,  absorbed  in 
reading  a  volume  of  Welsh  theological  essays.  He  is  dressed 
in  a  brightly  striped  vest,  a  short,  heavy  cloth  coat,  cut  away  in 
front  and  with  lapels  trimmed  unth  brass  buttons,  swallowtails 

*  Copyright,  1917,  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.     All  rights  reserved. 

277 


278  JEANNETTE     MARKS  , 

behind,  also  trimmed  with  brass  buttons,  stock  wound  around 
his  neck,  and  tight  trousers  down  to  his  boot-tops. 
Neli  Williams,  his  wife,  a  comehj,  capable  young  woman,  busy 
with  her  knitting  every  instant  she  talks,  is  clad  in  her  market 
costume,  a  scarlet  cloak,  and  a  tall  black  Welsh  beaver.  Over 
her  arm  is  an  immense  basket. 

Neli.     [Commandingly.]     Hughie,  put  down  that  book  ! 

Hugh.  [Still  going  on  reading.]  Haven't  I  just  said  a  man 
is  his  own  master,  whatever  ! 

Neli.     Hughie,  ye're  to  mind  the  shop  while  I'm  gone ! 

Hugh.     [Patiently.]     Yiss,  yiss. 

Neli.     I  don't  think  ye  hear  a  word  I  am  sayin'  whatever. 

Hugh.     Yiss,  I  hear  every  word  ye're  sayin'. 

Neli.     What  is  it,  then  ? 

Hugh.  [Weakly.]  'Tis  all  about — about — the — the  weather 
whatever ! 

Neli.  Ye've  not  heard  a  word,  an'  ye're  plannin'  to  read 
that  book  from  cover  to  cover,  I  can  see. 

Hugh.     [A  little  too  quickly.]     Nay,  I  have  no  plans  .  .  . 

[He  tucks  book  away  in  back  coat  pocket  over-hastily. 

Neli.     Hugh ! 

Hugh.     [Weakly.]     Nay,  I  have  no  plans  whatever ! 

Neli.  [Reproachfully.]  Hugh — ie !  'Twould  be  the  end  of 
sellin'  anythin'  to  anybody  if  I  leave  ye  with  a  book  whatever ! 
Give  me  that  book  ! 

Hugh.     [Obstinately.]     Nay,  I'll  no  read  the  book. 

Neli.     Give  me  that  book  ! 

Hugh.  [Rising  a  little.]  Nay.  I  say  a  man  is  his  cwn  mas- 
ter whatever ! 

Neli.  [Finding  the  book  hidden  in  his  coat-tail  pocket.]  Is  he  ? 
Well,  I'll  no  leave  ye  with  any  masterful  temptations  to  be 
read  in'. 

Hugh.     Ye've  no  cause  to  take  this  book  away  from  me. 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  «79 

Neli.  [Opens  book  and  starts  with  delight.]  'Tis  Deacon  Rob- 
erts's new  book  on  "The  Flamin'  Wickedness  of  Babylon." 
Where  did  ye  get  it  ? 

Hugh.  [Reassured  by  her  interest.]  He  lent  it  to  me  this 
morning. 

Neli.  [Resolutely.]  Well,  I  will  take  it  away  from  ye  this 
noon  till  I  am  home  again  whatever  ! 

Hugh.  [Sulkily.]  Sellin'  groceries  is  not  salvation.  They 
sold  groceries  in  Babylon;  Deacon  Roberts  says  so. 

Neli.  [Looking  at  book  with  ill-disguised  eagerness.]  I  dunno 
as  anybody  ever  found  salvation  by  givin'  away  all  he  had  for 
nothin' !  'Tis  certain  Deacon  Roberts  has  not  followed  that 
way. 

Hugh.     [Still  sulkily.]     A  man  is  his  own  master,  I  say. 

Neli.  [Absent-mindedly,  her  nose  in  the  book.]  Is  he  ?  Well, 
indeed ! 

Hugh.  [Crossly.]  Aye,  he  is.  [Pointedly.]  An'  I  was  not 
plannin'  to  give  away  the  book  whatever. 

Neli.  [Closing  volume  with  a  little  sigh,  as  for  stolen  delights, 
and  speaking  hastily.]  An'  I  am  not  talkin'  about  acceptin* 
books,  but  about  butter  an'  eggs  an'  cheese  an'  all  the  other 
groceries ! 

Hugh.     Aje,  ye'll  get  no  blessin'  from  such  worldliness. 

NsLi.  [Absent-mindedly.]  Maybe  not,  but  ye  will  get  a  din- 
ner from  that  unblessed  worldliness  an'  find  no  fault,  I'm 
thinkin'.  [Her  hand  lingering  on  the  book,  which  she  opens.]  But 
such  wonderful  theology  !  An'  such  eloquence  !  Such  an  under- 
standin'  of  sin  !     Such  glowin'  pictures  of  Babylon  ! 

Hugh.  Aye,  hot !  I  tell  ye,  Neli,  there's  no  man  in  the  par- 
ish has  such  a  gift  of  eloquence  as  Deacon  Roberts  or  such  the- 
ology.    In  all  Wales  ye'll  not  find  stronger  theology  than  his. 

Neli.  Ye  have  no  need  to  tell  me  that !  [Looking  for  a  place 
in  which  to  hide  the  book  until  she  returns.]  Have  I  not  a  deep 
an'  proper  admiration  for  theology  ?     Have  I  not  had  one  min- 


280  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

ister  an'  five  deacons  an'  a  revivalist  in  my  family,  to  say  nothin' 
at  all  of  one  composer  of  hymns  ? 

Hugh.  Yiss,  yiss.  Aye,  'tis  a  celebrated  family.  I  am  no 
say  in'  any  thin'  against  your  family. 

Neli.     Then  what  ? 

Hugh.  [Pleadingly.]  Deacon  Roberts  has  great  fire  with 
which  to  save  souls.  We're  needin'  that  book  on  Babylon's 
wickedness.     Give  it  back  to  me,  Neli ! 

Neli.  Oh,  aye!  [Looks  at  husband.]  I'm  not  sayin'  but 
that  ye  are  wicked,  Hugh,  an'  needin'  these  essays,  for  ye  have 
no  ministers  and  deacons  and  hymn  composers  among  j^our  kin. 

Hugh.  [Triumphantly.]  Aye,  aye,  that's  it!  That's  it! 
An'  the  more  need  have  I  to  read  till  my  nostrils  are  full  of  the 
smoke  of — of  Babjdon. 

Neli.  [Absent-mindedly  tucking  book  away  on  shelf  as  she 
talks.]  Aye,  but  there  has  been  some  smoke  about  Deacon 
Roberts's  reputation  which  has  come  from  some  fire  less  far 
away  than  Babylon. 

Hugh.     What  smoke  ? 

Neli.  [Evasively.]  Well,  I  am  thinkin'  about  my  eggs  which 
vanished  one  week  ago  to-day.  There  was  no  one  in  that  mornin* 
but  Deacon  Roberts.  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash  had  come  for  her 
soap  an'  gone  before  I  filled  that  basket  with  eggs. 

Hugh.  [Watching  her  covertly,  standing  on  tiptoe  and  craning 
his  neck  as  she  stows  away  book.]     Yiss,  yiss  ! 

Neli.  [Slyly.]  Ask  Deacon  Roberts  if  cats  steal  eggs  what- 
ever ? 

Hugh.     [Repeating.]     If  cats  steal  eggs,  if  cats  steal  eggs. 

Neli.     Aye,  not  if  eggs  steal  cats. 

Hugh.     [Craning  neck.]     Yiss,  yiss,  if  eggs  steal  cats  ! 

Neli.  Hugh — iel  Now  ye'Il  never  get  it  correct  again! 
'Tis  if  cats  steal  eggs. 

Hugh.  [Sulkily.]  Well,  I'm  no  carin'  about  cats  with  heaven 
starin'  me  in  the  face. 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  281 

[Neli  turns  about  szviftly  with  the  quick,  sudden  motions 
characteristic  of  her,  and  Hugh  shrinks  into  himself. 
She  shakes  her  finger  at  him  and  goes  over  to  kiss  him. 
Neli.     Hughie,  lad,  ye're  not  to  touch  the  book  while  I  am 
gone  to  market. 

Hugh.     Nay,  nay,  certainly  not ! 

Neli.  And  ye're  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  Mrs.  Jones  the 
Wash,  for  Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife — Jane  Elin  has  a  new  baby, 
an'  it'll  be  needin'  somethin'.  [Pointing  to  counter.]  Here  is 
everythin'  plainly  marked.  Ye're  no  to  undersell  or  give  away 
anythin'.  D'ye  hear. ^ 
Hugh.     Aye,  I  hear ! 

Neli.     An'  remember  where  the  tobacco  is,  for  this  is  the 
day  Tom  Morris  the  Sheep  comes  in. 
Hugh.     Aye,  in  the  glass  jar. 
Neli.     Good-by.     I  will  return  soon. 
Hugh.     [Indifferently.]     Good-by. 

[Neli  leaves  by  door  at  back  centre.     Immediaiely  Hugh 
steals  toward  the  shelves  where  she  hid  the  book. 
Neli.     [Thrusting   head   back   in.]     Mind,    Hughie    lad,    no 
readin' — nay,  not  even  any  theology ! 

Hugh.  [Stepping  quickly  away  from  shelves  and  repeating  par- 
rotlike.] Nay,  nay,  no  readin',  no  sermons,  not  even  any  the- 
ology ! 

Neli.     An'  no  salvation  till  I  come  back ! 

[She  smiles,  withdraws  head,  and  is  gone.     Hugh  starts 
forward,  collides  clumsily  with  the  counter  in  his  eager- 
ness, knocks  the  basket  of  eggs  with  his  elbow,  upsetting 
it.     Several  eggs  break.     He  shakes  his  head  ruefully  at 
the  mess  and  as  ruefully  at  the  counter.     He  finds  book 
and  hugs  it  greedily  to  him. 
Hugh.     [Mournfully.]     Look  at  this!     What  did  I  say  but 
that  there  was  no  salvation  sellin'  groceries !     If  Neli  could  but 
see  those  eggs !     [He  goes  behind  counter  and  gets  out  a  box  of 


282  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

eggs,  from  which  he  refills  the  basket.  The  broken  eggs  he  leaves 
untouched  upon  the  floor.  He  opens  his  volume  of  sermons  and 
seats  himself  by  a  little  three-legged  table  near  the  fire.  He  sighs  in 
happy  anticipation.  Hearing  a  slight  noise,  he  looks  suspiciously 
at  door,  gets  up,  tiptoes  across  floor  to  street  door,  and  locks  it 
quietly.  An  expression  of  triumph  overspreads  his  face.]  Da,  if 
customers  come,  they  will  think  no  one  is  at  home  whatever,  an' 
I  can  read  on  !  [He  seats  himself  at  little  three-legged  table,  opens 
volume,  smooths  over  its  pages  lovingly,  and  begins  to  read  slowly 
and  halting  over  syllables.]  The  smoke  of  Ba-by-lon  was  hot — 
scorchin'  hot.     An'  'twas  filled  with  Ba-ba-ba-baal  stones,  slimy 

an'  scorchin'  hot  also 

[There  is  the  sound  of  feet  coming  up  the  shop  steps,  followed 
by  a  hand  trying  the  door-knob.     Hugh  looks  up  from 
his  sermons,  an  expression  of  innocent  triumph  on  his 
face.     The  door-knob  is  tried  again,  the  door  rattled. 
[Then  some  one  rings  the  shop  door -bell. 
Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.      [Calling.]      Mrs.  Williams,  mum, 
ha  ve   ye   any  soap  ?     [No  answer.     Calling.]     Mrs.   Williams ! 
Mrs.   Williams! 

[Hugh  nods  approvingly  and  lifts  his  volume  to  read. 
Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  Where  are  they  all  whatever.^  I 
will  just  look  in  at  the  window.  [.4  large,  kindly  face  is  anxiously 
flattened  against  the  window.  At  that  Hugh  drops  in  consterna- 
tion under  the  three-legged  table.]  Uch,  what's  that  shadow  skip- 
pin'  under  the  table  ?  No  doubt  a  rat  after  the  groceries.  Mrs. 
Williams,  mum,  Mrs.  Williams  !     Well,  indeed,  they're  out. 

[She  pounds  once  more  on  the  door  with  a  heavy  fist,  rings, 
and  then  goes.     Suddenly  the  door  back  centre  opens,  and 
Neli  VfiLLiAMS  appears. 
Neli.     [She  does  not  see  Hugh  and  peers  around  for  him.] 
What  is  all  that  bell-ringing  about  ? 

[Hugh  crawls  out  from  und^  the  table. 
Hugh.     Hush,  she's  gone ! 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  «83 

Neli.     [Amazed,  and  tvhispering  to  herself.]     Under  the  table  ! 

Hugh.  [Rising  and  putting  up  his  hand  as  a  sign  for  her  to 
keep  silent.]  Nay,  'twas  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash  come  to  buy  her 
soap  whatever ! 

Neli.     Aye,  w^ell,  why  didn't  she  come  in  whatever .? 

HuGPi.  [Whispering.]  I  locked  the  door,  Neli,  so  I  could  fin- 
ish readin'  those  essays  whatever!  An'  then  she  looked  in  at 
the  window,  an'  I  had  to  get  under  the  table. 

Neli.  [Indignantly.]  Locked  the  door  against  a  customer, 
an'  after  all  I  said !  An'  crawled  under  a  table !  Hugh  Wil- 
liams, your  wits  are  goin'  quite  on  the  dov/nfall ! 

Hugh.  [In  a  whisper.]  Aye,  but  Neli,  those  essays — an'  I 
thought  ye  had  gone  to  market. 

Neli.  I  had  started,  but  I  came  back  for  my  purse.  Put 
down  that  book ! 

Hugh.     Aye,  but,  Neli 

Neli.  [Angrily.]  3,fuch  less  of  heaven  an'  much  more  of 
earth  is  what  I  need  in  a  husband !  Ye  have  sent  away  a  cus- 
tomer; very  like  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash  after  soap  will  go  else- 
where. 

Hugh.     Aye,  but  Neli  .  .  . 

[Steps  are  heard  approaching. 

Neli.     Get  up  !     Some  one  is  coming. 
[Hugh  gets  up  very  unwillingly. 

Hugh.     [Whispering  still.]     Aye,  but  Neli  .  .  . 

Neli.  [Angrily.]  Put  down  that  book,  I  say !  [She  crunches 
over  some  eggshells.]     Eggs  ?     Broken  ? 

Hugh.  [Putting  down  hook.]  Aye»  Neli,  my  elbow  an*  the 
eggs  in  Babylon  .  .  . 

Neli.  [Sarcastically.]  Aye,  I  see  beasts  in  Babylon  here  to- 
gether— doleful  creatures  smearin'  one  an'  sixpence  worth  of 
eggs  all  over  the  floor.  An'  a  half-dozen  eggs  gone  last  week. 
[Wiping  up  eggs.]  An'  I'm  to  suppose  Babylon  had  something 
to  do  with  that  half-dozen  eggs,  too.?     They  were  put  in  the 


284  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

basket  after  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash  had  left  whatever,  an'  before 
Deacon  Roberts  came. 

Hugh.     Neh,  I  did  not  say 

Neli.     [Still  angrily.]     Well,  indeed,  unlock  that  door ! 
Hugh.     [Going  to  unlock  door.]     But,  Neli  .  .  . 
Neli.     [Disappearing  through  door  back  centre.]     Not  a  word ! 
Your  mind  has  gone  quite  on  the  downfall — lockin'  doors  against 
your  own  bread  and  butter  an'  soap. 

Hugh.  [Unlocking  door  sullenly.]  But,  Neli,  salvation  an' 
soap  .  .  . 

Neli.     [Snappily.]     Salvation  an'  soap  are  as  thick  as  thieves. 
Hugh.     But,  Neli,  a  man  is  his  own  master. 
Neli.     Yiss,  I  see  he  is  ! 

[Neli  goes  out,  slamming  door  noisily. 
Hugh.     Dear  anwyl,  she  seems  angry ! 

[Hugh  opens  street  door  left  just  as  Neli  goes  out  through 

kitchen,  by  door  back  centre.     Deacon  Roberts  enters 

the  door  Hugh  has  unlocked.     He  looks  at  Hugh,  smiles , 

and  goes  over  to  counter  in  a  businesslike  way.     He  is  a 

stout  man,  dressed  in  a  black  broadcloth  cutaway  coat, 

tight  trousers,  a  drab  vest,  high  collar  and  stock,  woollen 

gloves,  a  muffler  wound  about  his  neck  and  face,  and  a 

tall  Welsh  beaver  hat.     Under  his  arm  he  carries  a  book. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Speaking  affectionately,   pulling  off  his 

gloves,  putting  down  book  on  counter,  and  beginning  eagerly  to 

touch  the  various  groceries.]     Essays  on  Bab^don  to-day,  Hughie 

lad.? 

Hugh.     [Looking  about  for  Neli  and  speaking  fretf idly .]     Nay. 
Deacon  Roberts.     [Unwinding  his  muffler.]     Ye  look  as  if 
ye  had  been  in  spiritual  struggle. 
Hugh.     [Drearily.]     I  have. 

Deacon  Roberts.  Well,  indeed,  Hughie,  'tis  neither  the 
angel  nor  the  archfiend  here  now,  nor  for  me  any  struggle  except 
the  struggle  to  both  live  an'  eat  well — ho  !  ho  !  an'  eat  well,  I  say 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  285 

— In  Bala.  [Laughs  jovially.]  Ho  !  ho  !  not  bad,  Hughie  lad — • 
live  an  eat  in  Bala ! 

Hugh.  [Patiently.]  With  that  muffler  around  your  head, 
deacon,  ye  are  enough  to  frighten  the  devil  out  of  Babylon. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Umvinding  last  lap  of  muffler.]  Yiss, 
jdss,  Hughie  lad.  But  I  dunno  but  .ye  will  understand  better  if 
I  call  mj'self,  let  us  say  the  angel  with  the  sickle — ho  !  ho  ! — not 
the  angel  of  fire,  Hughie,  but  the  angel  with  the  sharp  sickle 
gatherin'  the  clusters  of  the  vines  of  the  earth.  [Sudden  change 
of  subject.]     Where  is  Neli  ? 

Hugh.     [Vacantly.]     I  dunno — yiss,  yiss,  at  market. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Chuckling.]  Dear,  dear,  at  market — a 
fine  day  for  marketing !  An'  my  essays  on  the  Flamin'  Wicked- 
ness of  Babylon,  Hughie  lad,  how  are  they.'^  Have  ye  finished 
them  ? 

Hugh.     Nay,  not  yet. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Looking  over  counter,  touching  one  article 
after  another  as  he  mentions  it.]  Pickled  herrin' — grand  but  wet ! 
Pickles — dear  me,  yiss,  Neli's — an'  good  !  Butter  from  Hafod-y- 
Porth — sweet  as  honey !  [He  picks  up  a  pat  of  butter  and  sniffs 
it,  drawing  in  his  breath  loudly.  He  smiles  with  delight  and  lays 
down  the  butter.  He  takes  off  his  hat  and  dusts  it  out  inside.  He 
puts  his  hat  back  on  his  head,  smiles,  chuckles,  picks  up  butter,  taps 
it  thoughtfully  with  two  fingers,  smells  it  and  puts  down  the  pat 
lingeringly.  He  lifts  up  a  loaf  of  Neli  Williajms's  bread,  glanc- 
ing from  it  to  the  butter.]  Bread  !  Dear  me !  [His  eyes  glance 
on  to  codfish.]  American  codfish  [picks  up  package  and  smacks 
his  lips  loudly],  dear  anwyl,  with  potatoes — [reads]  "Gloucester." 
[Reaches  out  and  touches  eggs  affectionately.]  Eggs — are  they 
fresh,  Hugh.? 

Hugh.  [Dreamily.]  I  dunno.  But  I  broke  some  of  them. 
They  might  be  !  [Looks  at  floor. 

Deacon  Roberts.     Were  they  fresh .? 

Hugh.     I  dunno. 


286  JEANNETTE    MARKS 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Sharply.]     Dunno  ?     About  eggs  ? 

[Picks  up  egg. 

Hugh.     [Troubled.]     Neli's  hens  laid  them. 

Deacon  Roberts.  I  see,  Neli's  hens  laid  'em,  an'  you  broke 
'em  !  Admirable  arrangement !  [Putting  down  the  egg  and  turn- 
ing toward  the  cheesey  speaks  on  impatiently.]  Well,  indeed  then, 
were  the  hens  fresh  ? 

Hugh.  [More  cheerful.]  Yiss,  I  think.  Last  week  the  bas- 
ket was  grand  an'  full  of  fresh  eggs,  but  they  disappeared,  aye, 
they  did  indeed. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Starts.]     Where  did  they  go  to  ? 

Hugh.  [Injured.]  How  can  I  say  ?  I  was  here,  an'  I  would 
have  told  her  if  I  had  seen,  but  I  did  not  whatever.  Neli  re- 
proves me  for  too  great  attention  to  visions  an'  too  little  to  the 
groceries. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Chuckling.]  Aye,  Hughie  lad,  such  is 
married  life !  Let  a  man  marry  his  thoughts  or  a  wife,  for  he 
cannot  have  both.     I  have  chosen  my  thoughts. 

Hugh.     But  the  cat 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Briskly.]  Aye,  a  man  can  keep  a  cac 
without  risk. 

Hugh.  Nay,  nay,  I  mean  the  cat  took  'em.  I  dunno.  That's 
it —  [Hugh  clutches  his  head,  trying  to  recall  something.]  Uch, 
that's  it !  Neli  told  me  to  remember  to  ask  ye  if  ye  thought 
eggs  could  steal  a  cat  whatever. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Puzzled.]     Eggs  steal  a  cat  ? 

Hugh.     [Troubled.]     Nay,  nay,  cats  steal  an  egg .? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Startled  and  looking  suspiciously  at 
Hugh.]     Cats  ?     What  cats  ? 

Hugh.  [With  solemnity.]  Aye,  but  I  told  Neli  I'm  no  carin' 
about  cats  with  heaven  starin'  me  in  the  face.  Deacon  Roberts, 
those  essays  are  grand  an'  wonderful. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Relieved.]  Yiss,  yiss  !  Hughie  lad,  the- 
ology is  a  means  to  salvation  an'  sometimes  to  other  ends,  too. 
But  there's  no  money  in  theology.     [Sighs.]     And  a  man  must 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  287 

live  !  [Points  to  corroded  dish  of  pickled  herring,  sniffing  greedily.] 
Dear  people,  what  beautiful  herrin' !  [Wipes  moisture  away  from 
comers  of  his  mouth  and  picks  up  a  fish  from  dish,  holding  it,  drip- 
ping, by  tail.]     Pickled? 

Hugh.     [Looking  at  corroded  dish.]     Tuppence. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Shortly.]     Dear  to-day. 

Hugh.     [Eyeing  dish  dreamily.]     I  duniio.     Neli 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Eyes  glittering,  cutting  straight  through 
sentence  and  pointing  to  cheese.]     Cheese  ? 

Hugh.     A  shillin',  I'm  thinkin'. 

Deacon  Roberts.  A  shillin',  Hugh.?  [Deacon  Roberts 
lifts  knife  and  drops  it  lightly  on  edge  of  cheese.  The  leaf  it  pares 
off  he  picks  up  and  thrusts  into  his  mouth,  greedily  pushing  hi  the 
crumbs.  Then  he  pauses  and  looks  slyly  at  Hugh.]  Was  it  six- 
pence ye  said,  Hugh  ? 

Hugh.  [Gazing  toward  the  fire  and  the  volume  of  essays.]  Yiss, 
sixpence,  I  think. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Sarcastically.]     Still  too  dear,  Hugh ! 

Hugh.  [Sighing.]  I  dunno,  it  might  be  dear.  [With  m/yre 
animation.]     Deacon,  when  Babylon  fell 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Wipes  his  mouth  and,  interrupting  Hugh, 
speaks  decisively.]  No  cheese.  [He  removes  his  tall  Welsh  beaver 
hat,  mops  off  his  bald  white  head,  and,  pointing  up  to  the  shelves, 
begins  to  dust  oui  inside  of  hatband  again,  but  with  a  deliberate  air 
of  preparation.]     What  is  that  up  there,  Hughie  lad  ? 

Hugh.  [Trying  to  follow  the  direction  of  the  big  red  wavering 
forefinger.]     Ye  mean  that  ?     ABC  In-fants'  Food,  I  think. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Giving  his  hat  a  final  wipe.]  Nay,  nay, 
not  for  me,  Hughie  lad !  Come,  come,  brush  the  smoke  of 
burnin'  Babylon  from  your  eyes !  In  a  minute  I  must  be  goin* 
back  to  my  study,  whatever.     An'  I  have  need  of  food ! 

[Hugh  takes  a  chair  and  mounts  it.  The  Deacon  looks  at 
Hugh's  back,  puts  his  hand  down  on  the  counter,  and 
picks  up  an  egg  from  the  basket.  He  holds  it  to  the  light 
and  squints  through  it  to  see  whether  it  is  fresh.     Then  he 


288  JEANNETTE    MARKS 

turns  it  lovingly  over  in  his  fat  palm,  makes  a  dexterous 
backward  motion  and  slides  it  into  his  coat-tail  pocket. 
This  he  follows  with  two  more  eggs  for  same  coat-tail  and 
three  for  other — in  all  half  a  dozen. 

Hugh.     [Dreamily  pointing  to  tin.]     Is  it  Yankee  corn  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [To  Hugh's  back,  and  slipping  in  second 
egg.]     Nay,  nay,  not  that,  Hughie  lad,  that  tin  above ! 

Hugh.     [Absent-mindedly  touching  tin.]     Is  it  ox  tongue  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Slipping  in  third  egg  and  not  even  looking 
up.]     Ox  tongue,  lad  ?    Nay,  nothin'  so  large  as  that. 

Hugh.  [Dreamily  reaching  up  higher.]  American  condensed 
m-m-milk  ?     Yiss,  that's  what  it  is. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Slipping  in  fourth  egg.]  Condensed 
milk,  Hughie  ?     Back  to  infants'  food  again. 

Hugh.  [Stretching  up  almost  to  his  full  length  and  holding  down 
tin  with  tips  of  long  ivhite  finger.]     Kippert  herrin'  ?     Is  it  that  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Slipping  in  fifth  egg.]  Nay,  nay,  a  little 
further  up,  if  you  please. 

Hugh.  [Gasping,  but  still  reaching  up  and  reading.]  Uto — 
U-to-pi-an  Tinned  Sausage.     Is  it  that  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Slipping  in  sixth  egg  with  an  air  of  final- 
ity and  triumph,  and  lifting  his  hat  from  the  counter.]  Nay,  nay, 
not  that,  Hughie  lad.  Why  do  ye  not  begin  by  askin'  me  what 
I  want  ?     Ye've  no  gift  for  sellin'  groceries  whatever. 

Hugh.     [Surprised.]    Did  I  not  ask  ye  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.     Nay. 

Hugh.  What  would  Neli  say  whatever?  She  would  never 
forgive  me. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Amiably.]  Well,  I  forgive  ye,  Hughie 
lad.     'Tis  a  relish  I'm  needin' ! 

Hugh.  [Relieved.]  Well,  indeed,  a  relish  !  We  have  relishes 
on  that  shelf  above,  I  think.  [Reaches  up  but  pauses  helplessly.] 
I  must  tell  Neli  that  these  shelves  are  not  straight. 

[Dizzy  and  clinging  to  the  shelves y  his  back  to  the  Deacon. 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  289 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Picking  up  a  pound  of  butter  wrapped  in 
print  paper.]     Is  it  up  there  ? 

Hugh.  No,  I  think,  an'  the  shelves  are  not  fast  whatever. 
I  must  tell  Neli.  They  go  up  hke  wings.  [Trying  to  reach  to  a 
bottle  ju^t  above  him.]     Was  it  Enghsh  or  American  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Putting  the  pound  of  butter  in  his  hat  and 
his  hat  on  his  head.]     American,  Hughie  lad. 

[At  that  instant  there  is  a  noise  from  the  inner  kitchen^  and 
Neli  Williams  opens  the  door.  The  Deacon  turns, 
and  their  glances  meet  and  cross.  Each  understands  per- 
fectly what  the  other  has  seen.  Neli  Williams  has 
thrown  off  her  red  cloak  and  taken  off  her  Welsh  beaver 
hat.  She  is  dressed  in  a  short  full  skirt,  white  stockings, 
clogs  on  her  feet,  a  striped  apron,  tight  bodice,  fichu,  short 
sleeves,  and  white  cap  on  dark  hair. 
Neli.  [Slowly.]  Uch!  The  deacon  has  what  he  came  for 
whatever ! 

Hugh.  [Turning  to  contradict  his  wife.]  Nay,  Neli —  [Los- 
ing his  balance  on  chair,  tumbles  off,  and,  with  arm  flung  out  to 
.  save  himself,  strikes  dish  of  pickled  herring.  The  herring  and  brine 
fly  in  every  direction,  spraying  the  Deacon  and  Hughie;  the  bowl 
spins  madly,  dipping  and  revolving  on  the  floor.  For  a  few  seconds 
nothing  is  audible  except  the  bowl  revolving  on  the  flagstones  and 
Hughie  picking  himself  up  and  sneezing  behind  the  counter.] 
Achoo !     Achoo !     Dear  me,  Neli — Achoo  ! 

Neli.  [Going  quickly  to  husband  and  beginning  to  wipe  brine 
from  husband's  forehead  and  cheeks  ;  at  the  same  time  has  her  back 
to  the  Deacon  and  forming  soundless  letters  with  her  lips,  she  jerks 
her  head  toward  the  Deacon.]     B-U-T-T-E-R  ! 

Hugh.  [Drearily.]  Better.?  Aye,  I'm  better.  It  did  not 
hurt  me  whatever. 

Neli.     [Jerking  head  backwards  toward  Deacon  Roberts, 
and  again  forming  letters  with  lips.]     B-U-T-T-E-R  ! 
Hugh.     What,  water  ?     Nay,  I  don't  want  any  water. 


290  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Coughing,  ill  at  ease  and  glancing  sus~ 
jriciously  at  howl  that  has  come  to  rest  near  his  leg.]  Ahem  !  'Tis 
cold  here,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum,  an'  I  must  be  movin'  on. 

Neli.     [Savagely  to  Deacon.]     Stay  where  ye  are  whatever ! 
Deacon  Roberts.     [Unaccustomed  to  being  spoken  to  this  way 
hy  a  woman.]     Well,  indeed,  mum,  I  could  stay,  but  I'm  thinkin' 
'tis  cold  an' — I'd  better  go. 

Neli.  [Again  savagely.]  Nay,  stay !  Stay  for — for  what  ye 
came  for  whatever ! 

[Neli  looks  challengingly  at  the  Deacon.     Then  she  goes 

on  wiping  brine  carefully  from  husband's  hair  and  from 

behind  his  ears.     The  Deacon  coughs  and  pushes  howl 

away  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Smiling.]     'Tis  unnecessary  to  remain 

then,  mum. 

Neli.     [To  Hugh.]     What  did  he  get .? 
Hugh.     [Sneezing.]     N — n — Achoo  ! — nothin' ! 
Deacon  Roberts.     [With  sudden  interest,  looking  at  the  floor.] 
Well,  indeed ! 

Neli.     [Suspiciously.]     What  is  it? 

[He  reaches  down  with  difficulty  to  a  small  thick  puddle  on 

the  floor  just  beneath  his  left  coat-tail.     He  aims  a  red 

forefinger  at  it,  lifts  himself,  and  sucks  fingertip. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Smiling.]     Ahem,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum, 

'tis  excellent  herrin'  brine !     [From  the  basket  on  the  counter  he 

picks  up  an  egg,  which  he  tosses  lightly  and  replaces  in  basket.]     A 

beautiful  fresh  egg,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum.     I  must  be  steppin' 

homewards. 

Hugh.  [Struggling  to  speak  just  as  Neli  reaches  his  nose, 
wringing  it  vigorously  as  she  wipes  it.]  Aye,  but  Neli,  I  was  just 
tellin'  ye  when  I  fell  that  I  could  not  find  the  deacon's  relish — 
och,  achoo  !  achoo  ! 

Deacon  Roberts,     [With  finality,    tossing   the   egg    in    air, 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  291 

catching  it  and  putting  it  back  in  basket.]     Well,  indeed,  mum,  I 
must  be  steppin'  homewards  now. 

[Nei.i's  glance  rests  on  fire  burning  on  other  side  of  room. 
She  puts  down  wet  cloth.  She  turns  squarely  on  the 
Deacon. 

Neli.  What  is  your  haste,  Mr.  Roberts.^  Please  to  go  to 
the  fire  an'  wait !     I  can  find  the  relish. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Hastily.]  Nay,  nay,  mum.  I  have  no 
need  any  more —     [Coughs.]     Excellent  herrin'  brine. 

[Goes  toward  door. 

Neli.  [To  Hugh.]  Take  him  to  the  fire,  Hugh.  'Tis  a  cold 
day  whatever !  [Insinuatingly  to  Deacon.]  Have  ye  a  reason 
for  wantin'  to  go,  Mr.  Roberts  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Going.]  Nay,  nay,  mum,  none  at  all ! 
But,  I  must  not  trouble  ye.  'Tis  too  much  to  ask,  an'  I  have 
no  time  to  spare  an' 

Neli.  [Interrupting  and  not  without  acerbity.]  Indeed,  Mr. 
Roberts,  sellin'  what  we  can  is  our  profit.  [To  Hugh,  who  obedi- 
ently takes  Deacon  by  arm  and  pulls  him  toward  fire.]  Take  him 
to  the  fire,  lad.  [To  Deacon.]  What  kmd  of  a  relish  was  it, 
did  ye  say,  Mr.  Roberts  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Having  a  tug  of  war  with  Hugh.]  'Tis 
an  Indian  relish,  mum,  but  I  cannot  wait. 

Hugh.     [Pulling  harder.]     American,  ye  said. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Hastily.]  Yiss,  yiss,  American  Indian 
Telish,  that  is. 

Neli.  Tut,  'tis  our  specialty,  these  American  Indian  relishes ! 
We  have  several.  Sit  down  by  the  fire  while  I  look  them  up. 
[Wickedly.]  As  ye  said,  Mr.  Roberts,  'tis  cold  here  this  morn- 
ing. 

Deacon  Roberts.  There,  Hughie  lad,  I  must  not  trouble 
ye.  [Looks  at  clock.]  'Tis  ten  minutes  before  twelve,  an'  my 
dinner  will  be  ready  at  twelve.  [Pulls  harder. 

Neli.     [To  Hugh.]     Keep  him  hj  the  fire,  lad. 


292  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

Deacon  Roberts.     There,  Hughie  lad,  let  me  go ! 

[But  Hugh  holds  on,  and  the  Deacon's  coat  begins  to  come 
off- 

Neli.  [Sarcastically.]  The  relish — American  Indian,  ye  said, 
I  think — will  make  your  dinner  taste  find  and  grand  ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Finding  that  without  leaving  his  coat  he- 
hind  he  is  unable  to  go,  he  glowers  at  Hugh  and  speaks  siveethj  to 
Nell]  'Tis  a  beautiful  clock,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum.  But  I 
haven't  five  minutes  to  spare. 

Nell  [Keeping  a  sharp  lookout  on  the  rim  of  the  Deacon's 
hat.]  Well,  indeed,  I  can  find  the  relish  in  just  one  minute. 
An'  ye'U  have  abundance  of  time  left. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Trapped,  and  gazing  at  clock  ivithfine  air 
of  indifference.]  'Tis  a  clever,  shinin'  lookin'  clock  whatever, 
Mrs.  Williams,  mum. 

Neli.  Have  ye  any  recollection  of  the  name  of  the  maker 
of  the  relish,  Mr.  Roberts  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Putting  his  hands  behind  him  anxiously 
and  parting  his  freighted  coat-tails  with  care ;  then,  revolving,  pre- 
senting his  hack  and  one  large,  well-set,  bright-colored  patch  to  the 
fire.]     Naj^  I  have  forgotten  it,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum. 

Neli.  Too  bad,  but  I'm  sure  to  find  it.  [She  mounts  upon 
chair.  At  this  moment  the  shop  door-bell  rings  violently,  and  there 
enters  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash,  very  fat  and  very  jolly.  She  is 
dressed  in  short  skirt,  very  full,  clogs  on  her  feet,  a  bodice  made  of 
striped  Welsh  flannel,  a  shabby  kerchief,  a  cap  on  her  head,  and 
over  this  a  shawl.  Neli  turns  her  head  a  little.]  Aye,  Mrs.  Jones 
the  Wash,  in  a  minute,  if  you  please.  Sit  down  until  I  find 
Deacon  Roberts's  relish  whatever. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Sits  down  on  chair  by  door  back 
centre  and  folds  her  hands  over  her  stomach.]  Yiss,  yiss,  mum, 
thank  you.  I've  come  for  soap.  I  came  once  before,  but  no 
one  was  in. 

Nell     Too  bad ! 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.     An'  I  looked  in  at  the  window  an* 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  293 

saw  nothin'  but  a  skippin'  shadow  looked  like  a  rat.  Have  ye 
any  rats,  Mrs.  Williams,  mum,  do  ye  think  ? 

Neli.  Have  I  any  rats  ?  Well,  indeed,  'tis  that  I'm  wantin' 
to  know,  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash ! 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  Well,  I  came  back,  for  the  water  is 
eatin'  the  soap  to-day  as  if  'twere  sweets — aye,  'tis  a  very  meltin' 
day  for  soap  !  [Laughs. 

Deacon  Roberts.  'Tis  sweet  to  be  clean,  Mrs.  Jones  the 
Wash. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Laughing.]  Yiss,  yiss.  Deacon 
Roberts,  there  has  many  a  chapel  been  built  out  of  a  washtub, 
an'  many  a  prayer  risen  up  from  the  suds ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Solemnly.]  Aye,  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash, 
'tis  holy  work,  washin'  is  very  holy  work. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Touched.]  Yiss,  yiss,  I  thank  ye. 
Deacon  Roberts. 

Deacon  Roberts.     Well,  I  must  be  steppin'  homeward  now. 

Neli.  [Firmly.]  Nay,  Mr.  Roberts,  I  am  searchin'  on  the 
shelf  where  I  think  that  American  Indian  relish  is.  Ye  act  as  if 
ye  had  some  cause  to  hurry,  Mr.  Roberts.  Wait  a  moment,  if 
you  please. 

Deacon  Roberts.  Well,  indeed,  but  I  am  keepin'  Mrs. 
Jones  the  Wash  waitin' ! 

Neli.     [To  Mrs.  Jones.]     Ye  are  in  no  haste  ? 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Thoroughly  comfortable  and  happy.] 
Nay,  mum,  no  haste  at  all.  I  am  havin'  a  rest,  an'  'tis  grand 
an'  warm  here  whatever. 

Neli.     [Maliciously  to  Deacon.]     Does  it  feel  hot  by  the  fire  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Experiencing  novel  sensations  on  the 
crown  of  his  bald  head.]  Mrs.  Williams,  mum,  'tis  hot  in  Y  Gegin, 
but  as  with  Llanycil  Churchyard,  Y  Gegin  is  only  the  portal  to 
a  hotter  an'  a  bigger  place  where  scorchin'  flames  burn  forever 
an'  forever.  Proverbs  saith,  "Hell  an'  destruction  are  never 
full."  What,  then,  shall  be  the  fate  of  women  who  have  no  wis- 
dom, Mrs.  Williams,  mum  ? 


294  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

Neli.  [Searching for  relish.]  Aye,  what?  Well,  indeed,  the 
men  must  know. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Nodding  her  head  appreciatively  ot 
Hugh.]  Such  eloquence,  Mr.  Williams !  Aye,  who  in  chapel 
has  such  grand  theology  as  Deacon  Roberts ! 

[She  sighs.  The  hell  rings  violently  again,  and  Tom  Mor- 
ris THE  Sheep  enters.  He  is  dressed  in  gaiters,  a  shej)- 
herd's  cloak,  etc.,  etc.  He  carries  a  crook  in  his  hand. 
He  is  a  grizzle-haired,  rosy-faced  old  man,  raw-boned, 
strong,  and  awkward,  with  a  half-earnest,  half-foolish  look. 

Neli.  [Looking  around.]  Aye,  Tom  Morris  the  Sheep,  come 
in  an'  sit  down.  I  am  lookin'  out  an  American  Indian  relish  for 
the  deacon. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Yiss,  mum.  I  am  wantin'  to  buy 
a  little  tobacco,  mum.  'Tis  lonely  upon  the  hillsides  with  the 
sheep,  whatever. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Hastily.]  I  must  go  now,  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams, mum,  an'  ye  can  wait  on  Tom  Morris. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Nay,  nay,  Mr.  Roberts,  sir,  there 
is  no  haste. 

Neli.  [To  Tom  Morris.]  Sit  down  there  by  the  door,  if  you 
please. 

[Tom  Morris  seats  himself  on  other  side  of  door  by  back 
centre. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Yiss,  mum.  [Touches  his  fore- 
lock  to  Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.]  A  grand  day  for  the  clothes, 
JVirs.  Jones,  mum. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  Yiss,  yiss,  an'  as  I  was  just  sayin* 
'tis  a  meitin'  day  for  the  soap  ! 

Neli.  [Significantly.]  An'  perhaps  'tis  a  meitin'  day  for 
somethin'  besides  soap  !  [She  looks  at  Deacon. 

Hugh.  [Earnestly.]  Yiss,  yiss,  for  souls,  meitin'  for  souls,  I 
am  hopin'.  [Picking  up  the  book  from  the  little  three-legged  table, 
and  speaking  to  the  Deacon.]  They  are  enlargin'  the  burial 
ground  in  Llanycil  Churchyard — achoo  !  achoo  ! 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  295 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Slyly  moving  a  step  away  from  fire.] 
They're  only  enlargin'  hell,  Hughie  lad,  an'  in  that  place  they 
always  make  room  for  all.        [He  casts  a  stabbing  look  at  Neli. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Nodding  head.]  True,  true,  room 
for  all !  [Chuckling.]  But  'twould  be  a  grand  place  to  dry  the 
clothes  in ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Severely.]  Mrs.  Jones,  mum,  hell  is 
paved  with  words  of  lightness. 

Hugh.  [Looking  up  from  book,  his  face  expressing  delight.] 
Deacon  Roberts,  I  have  searched  for  the  place  of  hell,  but  one 
book  sayeth  one  thing,  an'  another  another.     Where  is  hell  ? 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.     Aye,  where  is  hell  ? 

[The  bell  rings  violently.  All  start  except  Neli.  Mrs. 
Jenkins  the  Midwife  enters.  She  is  an  old  woman, 
white-haired,  and  iviih  a  commanding,  someivhat  disagree- 
able expression  on  her  face.  She  wears  a  cloak  and  black 
Welsh  beaver  and  walks  with  a  stick. 

Neli.  Yiss,  yiss,  Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife,  I  am  just  lookin' 
out  a  relish  for  the  Deacon.     Sit  down  by  the  fire,  please. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  [Seating  herself  on  other  side 
of  fire.]  Aye,  mum,  I've  come  for  pins;  I'm  in  no  haste, 
mum. 

Neli.     Is  it  Jane  Elin's  baby  ? 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Aye,  Jane  Elin's,  an'  'tis  my 
sixth  hundredth  birth. 

Hugh.     We're  discussing  the  place  of  hell,  Mrs.  Jenkins,  mum. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Well,  indeed,  I  have  seen  the 
place  of  hell  six  hundred  times  then.  [Coughs  and  nods  her  head 
up  and  down  over  stick.]  Heaven  an'  hell  I'm  thinkin'  we  have 
with  us  here. 

Hugh.  Nay,  nay,  how  could  that  be  ?  Tell  us  where  is  the 
place  of  hell.  Deacon  Roberts. 

[All  listen  with  the  most  intense  interest. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Nodding.]  Aye,  the  place  of  hell — 
[stopping  suddenly,  a  terrified  look  on  his  face,  as  the  butter  slides 


296  JEANNETTE    MARKS 

against  the  forward  rim  of  his  hat,  almost  knocking  it  off,  then  going 
on  with  neck  rigid  and  head  straight  up]  to  me  is  known  where  is 
that  place — their  way  is  dark  an'  slippery;  they  go  down  into 
the  depths,  an'  their  soul  is  melted  because  of  trouble. 

Neli.  [Pausing  sceptically.]  Aye,  'tis  my  idea  of  hell  what- 
ever with  souls  meltin',  Mr.  Roberts ! 

Hugh.     [Tense  with  expectation.]     Tell  us  where  is  that  place  ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Neck  rigid,  head  unmoved,  and  voice 
querulous.]  Yiss,  jdss.  [Putting  his  hand  up  and  letting  it  down 
quickly.]     Ahem  !     Ye  believe  that  it  rains  in  Bala  ? 

Hugh.     [Eyes  on  Deacon,  in  childlike  faith.]     I  do. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Yiss,  yiss,  before  an'  after 
every  birth  whatever ! 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  Yiss,  yiss,  who  would  know  better 
than  I  that  it  rains  in  Bala  ? 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Aye,  amen,  it  rains  in  Bala  upon 
the  hills  an'  in  the  valleys. 

Deacon  Roberts.  Ye  believe  that  it  can  rain  in  Bala  both 
when  the  moon  is  full  an'  when  'tis  new  ? 

Hugh.     [Earnestly.]     I  do. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.     [Wearily.]    Yiss,  any  time. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.     Aj^e,  all  the  time. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Yiss,  yiss,  it  rains  ever  an' 
forever ! 

Neli.  [Forgetting  the  relish  search.]  Well,  indeed,  'tis  true  it 
can  rain  in  Bala  at  any  time  an'  at  all  times. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Paying  no  attention  to  Neli.]  Ye  believe 
that  Tomen-y-Bala  is  Ararat  ? 

Hugh.  [Clutching  his  book  more  tightly  and  speaking  in  a 
whisper.]     Yiss. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.     Aye,  'tis  true. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Yiss,  the  Hill  of  Bala  is 
Ararat. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Yiss,  I  have  driven  the  slieep  over 
it  whatever  more  than  a  hundred  times. 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  297 

Neli.  [Both  hands  on  counter,  leaning  forwardy  listening  to 
Deacon's  words.]     Aye,  Charles-y-Bala  said  so. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Still  ignoring  Neli  and  lowsring  his  coat- 
tails  carefully.]  Ye  believe,  good  people,  that  the  Druids  called 
Noah  "Tegid,"  an'  that  those  who  were  saved  were  cast  up  on 
Tomen-y-Bala  ? 

Hugh.     Amen,  I  do ! 

IVIrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  [Nodding  her  old  head.]  Aye, 
'tis  true. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.    Yiss,  yiss. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.    Amen,  'tis  so. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Moving  a  few  steps  away  from  the  JtrCy 
standing  sidewise,  and  lifting  hand  to  heady  checking  it  in  midair.] 
An'  ye  know  that  Bala  has  been  a  lake,  an'  Bala  will  become  a 
lake.? 

Hugh.  Amen,  I  do ! 

Neli.     [Assenting  for  the  first  time.]    Yiss,  'tis  true — that  is. 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.     Dear  anwyl,  yiss ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [With  warning  gesture  toward  window.] 
Hell  is  out  there — movin'  beneath  Bala  Lake  to  meet  all  at  their 
comin'.  [Raises  his  voice  suddenly.]  Red-hot  Baal  stones  will 
fall  upon  your  heads — Baal  stones.  Howl  ye !  [Shouting  loudly.] 
Meltin'  stones  smellin'  of  the  bullocks.  Howl,  ye  sinners ! 
[Clasping  his  hands  together  desperately.]  Scorchin'  hot — Oo — o 
— o — Howl  ye ! — howl  ye !  [The  Deacon's  hat  sumysy  and  he 
jams  it  down  more  tightly  on  his  head.  Unclasping  his  hands  and 
as  if  stirring  up  the  contents  of  a  pudding-dish.]  'Round  an'  round 
like  this  !     Howl,  ye  sinners,  howl ! 

[All  moan  and  sway  to  and  fro  except  Neli. 

Neli.     [Sceptically.]     What  is  there  to  fear.?* 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  [Groaning.]  Nay,  but  what  is 
there  not  to  fear  ? 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  Aye,  outermost  darkness,  Och! 
Och! 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.     Have  mercy ! 


298  JEANNETTE     MARKS 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Shouting  again.]  Get  ready !  Lift  up 
your  eyes  !  [Welsh  beaver  almost  falls  off  and  is  set  straight  in  a 
twinkling.]  Beg  for  mercy  before  the  stones  of  darkness  burn 
thee,  an'  there  is  no  water  to  cool  thy  tongue,  an'  a  great  gulf  is 
fixed  between  thee  an'  those  who  might  help  thee ! 

Neli.  [Spellbound  by  the  Deacon's  eloquence  and  now  oblivi- 
ous to  hat,  etc.]     Yiss,  yiss,  'tis  true,  'tis  very  true  ! 

[She  steps  down  from  chair  and  places  hands  on  counter. 

Deacon  Roberts.  [His  face  convulsed,  shouting  directly  at 
her.]     Sister,  hast  thou  two  eyes  to  be  cast  into  hell  fire  ? 

Neli.  [Terrified  and  swept  along  by  his  eloquejice.]  Two  eyes 
to  be  burned  ? 

[All  lower  their  heads,  groaning  and  rocking  to  and  fro. 

Deacon  Roberts.     [The  butter  trickling  doion  his  face,  yelling 
with  sudden  violence.]     Hell  is  here  an'  now.     Here  in  Bala,  here 
in  Y  Gegin,  here  with  us !     Howl  ye  !     Howl,  ye  sinners  ! 
[All  moan  together. 

Hugh.     [Whispering.]     Uch,  here ! 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.     Yiss,  here! 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.     Yiss. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.     [Terrified.]    Aye.     Amen !     Yiss ! 

Neli.     [Whispering.]     Here  in  Y  Gegin  ! 

Deacon  Roberts.  [Clapping  his  hands  to  his  face.]  Stones 
of  Baal,  stones  of  darkness,  slimy  with  ooze,  red-hot  ooze,  thick 
vapors !  Howl  ye,  howl,  ye  sinners !  [All  moan  and  groan. 
Takes  a  glance  at  clock,  passes  hand  over  face  and  runs  on  madly, 
neck  rigid,  eyes  staring,  fat  red  cheeks  turning  to  purple.]  Midday, 
not  midnight,  is  the  hour  of  hell;  its  sun  never  sets !  But  who 
knows  when  comes  that  hour  of  hell  ? 

Neli.  [Taking  hands  from  counter  and  crossing  them  as  she 
whispers.]     Who  knows  ? 

All.     [Groaning.]     Who  knows  ? 

Hugh.  [Voice  quavering  and  lifting  his  Wehh  essays.]  Who 
knows  ? 

Deacon  Roberts.     [Big  yellow  drops  pouring  down  his  face. 


THE    DEACON'S    HAT  299 

his  voice  full  of  anguish.]  I  will  tell  ye  when  is  the  hour  of  hell. 
[He  points  to  the  clock.]  Is  one  the  hour  of  hell  ?  Nay.  Two  ? 
Nay.  Three  ?  No,  not  three.  Four  ?  Four  might  be  the  hour 
of  hell,  but  'tis  not.  Five.'*  Nor  five,  indeed.  Six.'  Nay. 
Seven?  Is  seven  the  hour,  the  awful  hour.?  Nay,  not  yet. 
Eight  ?  Is  eight  the  hour — an  hour  bright  as  this  bright  hour  .'* 
Nay,  eight  is  not.  [The  Deacon  shouts  in  a  mighty  voice  and 
'points  with  a  red  finger  at  the  clock.]  'Tis  comin' !  'Tis  comin',  I 
say  !  Howl  ye,  howl !  Only  one  minute  more  !  Sinners,  sin- 
ners, lift  up  your  eyes  !  Cry  for  mercy !  [All  groan.]  Cry  for 
mercy !  When  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  'twill  be  the  hour  of 
hell !  Fix  your  eyes  upon  the  clock  !  Watch !  Count !  Lis- 
ten !     'Tis  strikin'.     The  stroke  !     The  hour  is  here  ! 

[All  dropped  on  their  knees  and  turned  toward  the  clock y 
their  hacks  to  the  street  door,  are  awaiting  the  awful  stroke. 
The  hook  has  fallen  from  Hugh's  hands.     Neli's  hands 
are  clenched.     Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife  is  nodding 
her  old  head.     Mrs.  Jones  the  W^ash  on  her  knees,  her 
face  upturned  to  the  clock,  is  rubbing  up  and  down  her 
thighs,  as  if  at  the  business  of  washing.     Tom  Morris 
THE  Sheep  is  prostrate  and  making  a  strange  buzzing 
sound  between  his  lips.     The  ivheels  of  the  clever  old  time- 
piece whir  and  turn.     Then  in  the  silent  noonday  the 
harsh  striking  begins :  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  Six, 
Seven,  Eight,  Nine,  Ten,  Eleven,  Twelve. 
Deacon  Roberts.     [Yelling  suddenly  in  a  loud  and  terrible 
voice.]     Hell    let   loose !     Howl   ye !     Howl,    ye    sinners !     [All 
cover  their  eyes.     All  groan  or  moan.     The  clock  ticks,  the  flame  in 
the  grate  flutters,  Neli's  bosom  rises  and  falls  heavily.]     Lest  worse 
happen  to  ye,  sin  no  more  ! 

[The  Deacon  looks  at  them  all  quietly.  Then  he  lifts  his 
hands  in  sign  of  blessing,  smiles  and  vanishes  silently 
through  street  door.  All  remain  stationary  in  their  ter- 
ror. Nothing  happens.  But  at  last  Neli  fearfully,  still 
spellbound  by  the  Dkacon's  eloquence,  lifts  her  eyes  to 


300  JEANNETTE    MARKS 

the  clock.     Then  cautiously  she  turns  a  little  toward  the 
fire  and  the  place  of  Deacon  Roberts. 

Neli.  Uch  !  [She  stands  on  her  feet  and  cries  out.]  The  Dea- 
con is  gone ! 

Hugh.     [Raising  his  eyes.]     Uch,  what  is  it  ?     Babylon 

Neli.     Babylon  nothing  !  [She  wrings  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  [Groaning.]  Is  he  dead  ?  Is 
he  dead  ? 

Neli.  [With  sudden  plunge  toward  the  door.]  Uch,  ye  old 
hypocrite,  ye  villain !  Uch,  my  butter  an'  my  eggs,  my  butter 
an'  my  eggs ! 

[Neli  throws  open  the  door  and  slams  it  to  after  her  as  she 
pursues  the  Deacon  out  into  the  bright  midday  sunshine. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  Well,  indeed,  what  is  it.' 
Has  she  been  taken  ? 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Getting  up  heavily.]  Such  movin' 
eloquence  !     A  saintly  man  is  Deacon  Roberts  ! 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Aye,  a  saintly  man  is  Deacon 
Roberts ! 

Hugh.  [Picking  up  his  hook  and  speaking  slowly.]  Aye,  elo- 
quence that  knoweth  the  place  of  hell  even  better  than  it  know- 
eth  Bala  whatever ! 

Mrs.  Jenkins  the  Midwife.  [Very  businesslike.]  Aye,  'twas 
a  treat — a  rare  treat !     But  where's  my  pins  now  ? 

Mrs.  Jones  the  Wash.  [Very  businesslike.]  Yiss,  yiss, 
'twas  a  grand  an'  fine  treat.     But  I'm  wantin'  my  soap  now. 

Tom  Morris  the  Sheep.  Have  ye  any  tobacco,  Hughie 
lad? 

curtain 


WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA 


BY 

OSCAR  M.  WOLFF 


Where  But  In  America  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  the  author 
and  of  the  Smart  Set  Magazine,  in  which  this  play  was  first  printed. 
For  permission  to  perform  address  the  author  at  Room  1211,  105  Monroe 
Street,  Chicago,  Illinois. 


OSCAR  M.  WOLFF 

Oscar  M.  Wolff  was  born  July  13,  1876.  After  graduation 
from  Cornell  University  he  completed  his  law  course  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago.  In  addition  to  his  interest  in  law,  which  he 
has  practised  and  taught,  he  has  done  considerable  writing  and 
editing.  He  has  published  a  legal  text-book,  and  his  articles  on 
legal  subjects  have  appeared  both  in  law  journals  and  in  maga- 
zines of  general  interest.  During  the  war  he  was  connected  with 
the  United  States  Food  ^Administration  at  Washington.  At  pres- 
ent he  lives  in  Chicago,  Illinois. 

In  addition  to  some  stories,  he  has  written  several  one-act 
plays:  Where  But  in  America^  The  Claim  for  Exemption,  and  The 
Money -Lenders. 

Where  But  in  America  is  an  excellent  play  of  situation,  as  well 
as  a  delicate  satire  on  a  certain  aspect  of  American  social  life. 


CAST 

Mrs.  Espenhatne 
IVIr.  Espenhatne 
Hilda 


WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA* 

SCENE :  The  Espenhayne  dining-room. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  Espenhayne  dining-room.  It  is  furnished 
with  modest  taste  and  refinement.  There  is  a  door,  centre,  lead- 
ing to  the  living-room,  and  a  swinging  door,  left,  leading  to  the 
kitchen. 

The  table  is  set,  and  Robert  and  Mollie  Espenhayne  are  discov- 
ered at  their  evening  meal.  They  are  educated,  well-bred  young 
Americans.  Robert  is  a  pleasing,  energetic  business  man 
of  thirty ;  Mollie  an  attractive  woman  of  twenty-five.  The 
bouillon  cups  are  before  them  as  the  curtain  rises. 

Bob.  Mollie,  I  heard  from  the  man  who  owns  that  house  in 
Kenilworth.     He  wants  to  sell  the  house.     He  won't  rent. 

Mollie.  I  really  don't  care.  Bob.  That  house  was  too  far 
from  the  station,  and  it  had  only  one  sleeping-porch,  and  you 
know  I  want  white-enamelled  woodwork  in  the  bedrooms.  But, 
Bob,  I've  been  terribly  stupid ! 

Bob.     How  so,  Mollie  ? 

Mollie.  You  remember  the  Russells  moved  to  Highland 
Park  last  spring  ? 

Bob.  Yes;  Ed  Russell  rented  a  house  that  had  just  been 
built. 

Mollie.  A  perfectly  darling  little  house  !  And  Fanny  Rus- 
sell once  told  me  that  the  man  who  built  it  will  put  up  a  house 
for  any  one  who  will  take  a  five-year  lease.     And  she  says  that 

*  Copyright,  1917,  by  Oscar  M.  Wolff.     All  rights  reserved. 
305 


303  OSCAR     M.     WOLFF 

the  man  is  very  competent  and  they  are  simply  delighted  with 
their  place. 

Bob.     Why  don't  we  get  in  touch  with  the  man  ? 

MoLLiE.  Wasn't  it  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  about  it?  It 
just  flashed  into  my  mind  this  morning,  and  I  sat  down  at  once 
and  sent  a  special-delivery  letter  to  Fanny  Russell.  I  asked  her 
to  tell  me  his  name  at  once,  and  where  we  can  find  him. 

Bob.  Good !  You  ought  to  have  an  answer  by  to-morrow 
or  Thursday  and  we'll  go  up  north  and  have  a  talk  with  him  on 
Saturday. 

MoLLiE.  [With  enthusiasm.]  Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  if 
he'd  build  just  what  we  want !  Fanny  Russell  says  every  detail 
of  theu-  house  is  perfect.     Even  the  garage;  they  use  it 

Bob.  [Interrupting.]  Mollie,  that's  the  one  thing  I'm  afraid 
of  about  the  North  Shore  plan.  I've  said  repeatedly  that  I 
don't  want  to  buy  a  car  for  another  year  or  tv/o.  But  here  you 
are,  talking  about  a  garage  already. 

Mollie.  But  you  didn't  let  me  finish  what  I  was  saying. 
The  Russells  have  fitted  up  their  garage  as  a  playroom  for  the 
children.     If  we  had  a  garage  we  could  do  the  same  thing. 

Bob.  Well,  let's  keep  temptation  behind  us  and  not  even 
talk  to  the  man  about  a  garage.  If  we  move  up  north  it  must 
be  on  an  economy  basis  for  a  few  years;  just  a  half-way  step  be- 
tween the  apartment  and  the  house  we  used  to  plan.  You 
mustn't  get  your  heart  set  on  a  car. 

Mollie.  I  haven't  even  thought  of  one,  dear.  [Bob  and 
Mollie  have  now  both  finished  the  bouillon  course  and  lay  down 
their  spoons.  Reaching  out  her  hand  to  touch  the  table  button,  and 
at  the  same  time  leaning  across  the  table  and  speaking  very  im- 
pressively.]    Bob,  I'm  about  to  ring  for  Hilda  ! 

Bob.     What  of  it  ? 

Mollie.  [Decidedly  and  with  a  touch  of  impatience.]  You 
know  very  well,  what  of  it.  I  don't  want  Hilda  to  hear  us  say 
one  word  about  moving  away  from  the  South  Side ! 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  307 

Bob.     [Proiesting.]     But  Mollie 

MoLLiE.     [Interrupting  hurriedly  and  holding  her  finger  to  her 
lips  in  warning.]     Psst ! 

[The  next  instant  Hilda  enters,  left.     Shs  is  a  tall,  blonde 

Swedish  girl,  about  twenty-five  years  old.     She  is  very 

pretty   and  carries   herself  well  and  looks  particularly 

charming  in  a  maid's  dress,  with  white  collars  and  cuffs 

and  a  dainty  waitress's  apron.     Every  detail  of  her  dress 

is  immacidate. 

Mollie.     [Speaking  the  instant  that  Hilda  appears  and  talking 

very  rapidly  all  the  time  that  Hilda  remains  in  the  room.     While 

she  speaks  IMollie  watches  Hilda  rather  than  Robert,  whom  she 

pretends  to  be  addressing.]     In  the  last  game  Gert  Jones  was  my 

partner.     It  was  frame  apiece  and  I  dealt  and  I  bid  one  no  trump. 

I  had  a  very  weak  no  trump.     I'll  admit  that,  but  I  didn't  want 

them  to  win  the  rubber.     Mrs.  Stone  bid  two  spades  and  Gert 

Jones  doubled  her.     Mrs.  Green  passed  and  I  simply  couldn't 

go  to  three  of  anything.     Mrs.  Stone  played  two  spades,  doubled, 

and  she  made  them.     Of  course,  that  put  them  out  and  gave 

them  the  rubber.     I  think  that  was  a  very  foolish  double  of 

Gert  Jones,  and  then  she  said  it  was  my  fault,  because  I  bid  one 

no  trump. 

[As  Mollie  begins  her  flow  of  words  Bob  first  looks  at  her 
in  open-mouthed  astonishment.  Then  as  he  gradually 
comprehends  that  Mollie  is  merely  talking  against  time 
he  too  turns  his  eyes  to  Hilda  and  watches  her  closely  in 
her  movements  around  the  table.  Meamchile  PIilda 
moves  quietly  and  quickly  and  pays  no  attention  to  any- 
thing except  the  work  she  has  in  hand.  She  carries  a 
small  serving-tray,  and,  as  Mollie  speaks,  Hilda  first 
takes  the  bouillon  cups  from  the  table,  then  brings  the 
carving-knife  and  fork  from  the  sideboard  and  places  them 
before  Robert,  and  then,  with  the  empty  bouillon  cups, 
exits  left.     Bob  and  Mollie  are  both  watching  Hilda  as 


308  OSCAR    M.     WOLFF 

she  goes  out.     The  instant  the  door  swings  shut  behind 
her,  MoLLiE  relaxes  with  a  sigh,  and  Robert  leans  across 
the  table  to  speak. 
Bob.     Mollie,  why  not  be  sensible  about  this  thing  !     Have  a 
talk  with  Hilda  and  find  out  if  she  will  move  north  with  us. 

Mollie.  That's  just  like  a  man !  Then  we  might  not  find 
a  house  to  please  us  and  Hilda  would  be  dissatisfied  and  suspi- 
cious. She  might  even  leave.  [Thoughtfully.]  Of  course,  I 
must  speak  to  her  before  we  sign  a  lease,  because  I  really  don't 
know  what  I'd  do  if  Hilda  refused  to  leave  the  South  side.  [More 
cheerfully.]  But  there,  we  won't  think  about  the  disagreeable 
things  until  everything  is  settled. 

Bob.     That's  good  American  doctrine. 

Mollie.  [Wamingly  and  again  touching  her  finger  to  her  lips.] 
Psst! 

[Hilda  enters,  left,  carrying  the  meat  plates,  with  a  heavy 
napkin  under  them. 
Mollie.  [Immediately  resuming  her  monologue.]  I  think 
my  last  year's  hat  will  do  very  nicely.  You  know  it  rained  all 
last  summer  and  I  really  only  wore  the  hat  a  half  a  dozen 
times.  Perhaps  not  that  often.  I  can  make  a  few  changes  on 
it;  put  on  some  new  ribbons,  you  know,  and  it  will  do  very 
nicely  for  another  year.  You  remember  that  hat,  don't  you, 
dear  ? 

[Bob  starts  to  answer,  but  Mollie  rushes  right  on. 
Of  course  you  do,  you  remember  you  said  it  was  so  becoming. 
That's  another  reason  why  I  want  to  wear  it  this  summer. 

[Hilda,  meanwhile,  puts  the  plates  on  the  table  in  front  of 
Bob,  and  goes  out,  left.     Mollie  at  once  stops  speaking. 
Bob.     [Holding  his  Jmnds  over  the  plates  as  over  a  fire  and  rub- 
bing them  together  in  genial  warmth.]    Ah,  the  good  hot  plates ! 
She  never  forgets  them.     She  is  a  gem,  Mollie. 

Mollie.  [In  great  self-satisfaction.]  If  you  are  finally  con- 
vinced of  that,  after  three  years,  I  wish  you  would  be  a  little  bit 


AVHERE     BUT    IN    AMERICA  309 

more  careful  what  you  say  the  next  time  Hilda  comes  in  the 
room. 

Bob.     [In  open-mouthed  astonishment]     What ! 
MoLLiE.     Well,  I  don't  want  Hilda  to  think  we  are  making 
plans  behind  her  back. 

Bob.  [Reflectively.]  "A  man's  home  is  his  castle."  [Pauses.] 
It's  very  evident  that  the  Englishman  who  first  said  that  didn't 
keep  any  servants. 

[Telephone  bell  rings  off  stage. 
MoLLiE.     Answer  that,  Bob. 
Bob.     Won't  Hilda  answer  it  .'^ 

MoLLiE.  [Standing  up  quickly  and  speaking  impatiently.] 
Very  well,  I  shall  answer  it  myself.  I  can't  ask  Hilda  to  run  to 
the  telephone  while  she  is  serving  the  meal. 

Bob.     [Sullenly,  as  he  gets  up.]     All  right !     All  right ! 

[Bob  exits,  centre.     As  he  does  so  Hilda  appears  at  the 
door,  left,  hurrying  to  answer  the  telephone. 
MoLLiE.     Mr.  Espenhayne  will  answer  it,  Hilda. 

[Hilda  makes  the  slightest  possible  bow  of  acquiescence,  with- 
draws left,  and  in  a  moment  reappears  with  vegetable 
dishes  and  small  side  dishes,  which  she  puts  before  Mrs. 
Espenhayne.  She  is  arranging  these  when  Bob  re- 
enters, centre. 
Bob.     Somebody  for  you,  Hilda. 

Hilda.  [Surprised.]  For  me.^  Oh!  But  I  cannot  answer 
eet  now.     Please  ask  the  party  to  call  later. 

[Hilda  speaks  excellent  English,  but  with  some  Swedish 
accent.     The  noticeable  feature  of  her  speech  is  the  pre- 
cision and  great  care  with  which  she  enunciates  every 
syllable. 
MoLLiE.     Just  take  the  number  yourself,  Hilda,  and  tell  the 
party  you  will  call  back  after  dinner. 

Hilda.     Thank  you.  Messes  Aispenhayne. 

[Hilda  exits,  centre.    Bob  stands  watching  Hilda,  as  she 


310  OSCAR    M.     WOLFF 

leaves  the  room,  and  then  turns  and  looks  at  Mollie  with 
a  bewildered  expression. 
Bob.     [Standing  at  his  chair.]     But  I  thought  Hilda  couldn't 
be  running  to  the  telephone  while  she  serves  the  dinner  ? 

Mollie.  But  this  call  is  for  Hilda,  herself.  That's  quite 
diflPerent,  you  see. 

Bob.  [Slowly  and  thoughtfully.]  Oh,  yes  !  Of  course;  I  see! 
[Sits  down  in  his  chair.]     That  is — I  don't  quite  see ! 

Mollie.  [Immediately  leaning  across  the  table  and  speaking 
in  a  cautious  whisper.]     Do  you  know  who  it  is  ? 

[Bob  closes  his  lips  very  tightly  and  nods  yes  in  a  very 

important  manner. 

Mollie.     [In  the  same  whisper  and  very  impatiently.]     Who.^ 

Bob.     [Looking  around  the  room  as  if  to  see  if  any  one  is  in 

hiding,  and  then  putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  exaggerating 

the  whisper.]     The  Terrible  Swede. 

Mollie.  [In  her  ordinary  tone  and  very  much  exasperated.] 
Kobert,  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  that  you  shouldn't  refer 
to — to — the  man  in  that  way. 

Bob.  And  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  to  ask  Hilda  his 
name.  If  I  knew  his  name  I'd  announce  him  with  as  much  cere- 
mony as  if  he  were  the  Swedish  Ambassador. 

Mollie.  [Disgusted.]  Oh,  don't  try  to  be  funny !  Suppose 
some  day  Hilda  hears  you  speak  of  him  in  that  manner  ? 

Bob.  You  know  that's  mild  compared  to  what  you  think  of 
him.  Suppose  some  day  Hilda  learns  what  you  think  of  him  ? 
Mollie.  I  think  very  well  of  him  and  you  know  it.  Of 
course,  I  dread  the  time  when  she  marries  him,  but  I  wouldn't 
for  the  world  have  her  think  that  we  speak  disrespectfully  of 
her  or  her  friends. 

Bob.     "A  man's  home  is  his  castle." 

[Mollie's  only  answer  is  a  gesture  of  impaiience.  Mollie 
and  Bob  sit  back  in  their  chairs  to  await  Hilda's  return. 
Both  sit  with  fingers  interlaced,  hands  resting  on  the  edge 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  Sll 

oj  the  table  in  the  attitude  of  school  children  at  attention, 
A  long  pause.     Mollie  unclasps  her  hands  and  shifts 
uneasily.     Robert  does  the  same.     Mollie,  seeing  this, 
hastily   resumes   her  former   attitude   of  quiet   waiting. 
Robert,  however,  grows  increasingly  restless.     His  rest- 
lessness makes  Mollie  nervous  and  she  watches  Robert, 
and  when  he  is  not  observing  her  she  darts  quick,  anxious 
glances  at  the  door,  centre.     Bob  drains  and  refills  his 
glass. 
Mollie.     [She  has  been  watching  Robert  and  every  time  he 
shifts  or  moves  she  unconsciously  does  the  same,  and  finally  she 
breaks  out  nervously.]     I  don't  understand  this  at  all !     Isn't  to- 
day Tuesday  ? 

Bob.     What  of  it  ? 

Mollie.     He  usually  calls  up  on  Wednesdays  and  comes  to 
see  her  on  Saturdays. 

Bob.  And  takes  her  to  the  theatre  on  Thursdays  and  to 
dances  on  Sundays.  lie's  merely  extending  his  line  of  attack. 
{Another  long  pause — then  Bob  begins  to  experiment  to  learn 
whether  the  plates  are  still  hot.  He  gijigerly  touches  the 
edges  of  the  upper  plate  in  two  or  three  places.  It  seems 
safe  to  handle.  He  takes  hold  of  upper  and  lower  plates 
boldly,  muttering,  as  he  does  so,  "Cold  as — "  Drops 
the  plates  with  a  clatter  and  a  smothered  oath.  Shakes 
his  fingers  and  blows  on  them.  Meanwhile  Mollie  is 
sitting  very  rigid,  regarding  Bob  with  a  fixed  stare  and 
beating  a  vigorous  tattoo  on  the  tablecloth  with  her  fingers. 
Bob  catches  her  eye  and  cringes  under  her  gaze.  He  drains 
and  refills  his  glass.  He  studies  the  walls  and  the  ceiling 
of  the  room,  meanwhile  still  nursing  his  fingers.  Bob 
steals  a  sidelong  glance  at  Mollie.  She  is  still  staring 
at  him.  He  turns  to  his  water  goblet.  Picks  it  up  and 
holds  it  to  the  light.  He  rolls  the  stem  between  his  fingers, 
squinting  at  the  light  through  the  water.  Reciting  slowly 
as  he  continues  to  gaze  at  the  light. 


312  OSCAR     M.     WOLFF 

Bob.  Starlight!  Starbright!  Will  Hilda  talk  to  him  all 
night ! 

MoLLiE.     [In  utter  disgust]     Oh,  stop  that  singing. 

[Bob  puts  down  his  glass,  thsn  drinks  the  water  and  refills 
the  glass.     lie  then  turns  his  attention  to  the  silverware 
and  cutlery  before  him.     He  examines  it  criticalhj,  then 
lays  a  teaspoon  carefully  on  the  cloth  before  him,  and  at- 
tempts the  trick  of  picking  it  up  with  the  first  finger  in  the 
howl  and  the  thumb  at  the  point  of  the  handle.     After  one 
or  two  attempts  the  spoon  shoots  on  the  floor,  far  behind 
him.     MoLLiE  jumps  at  the  noise.     Bob  turns  sloicly 
and  looks  at  the  spoon  with  an  injured  air,  then  turns 
back  to  MoLLiE  with  a  silly,  vacuous  smile.     He  now  lays 
all  the  remaining  cutlery  in  a  straight  row  before  him. 
Bob.     [Slowly  counting  the  cutlery  and  silver,  back  and  forth.] 
Eeny,  meeny,  miney,  mo.     Catch  a —     [Stops  suddenly  as  an 
idea  comes  to  him.     Gazes  thoughtfully  at  MoLLiE/or  a  moment, 
then  begins  to  count  over  again.]     Eeny,   meeny,   miney,   mo; 
Hilda's  talking  to  her  beau.     If  we  holler,  she  may  go.     Eeny, 

mee 

MoLLiE.  [Interrupting  and  exasperated  to  the  verge  of  tears.] 
Bob,  if  you  don't  stop  all  that  nonsense,  I  shall  scream !  [In  a 
very  tense  tone.]  I  believe  I'm  going  to  have  one  of  my  sick 
headaches !  [Puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead.]  I  know  it;  I  can 
feel  it  coming  on  ! 

Bob.  [In  a  soothing  tone.]  Hunger,  my  dear,  hunger !  When 
you  have  a  good  warm  meal  you'll  feel  better. 

MoLLiE.     [In    despair.]  What  do  you  suppose  I  ought  to  do  ? 
Bob.     Go  out  in  the  kitchen  and  fry  a  couple  of  eggs. 
MoLLiE.     Oh !   be  serious !     I'm  at  my   wits'   end !     Hilda 
never  did  anything  like  this  before. 

Bob.  [Suddenly  quite  serious.]  What  does  that  fellow  do  for 
a  living,  anyhow  ? 

MoLLiE.     How  should  I  know  ? 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  313 

Bob.     Didn't  you  ever  ask  Hilda  ? 

MoLLiE.  Certainly  not.  Hilda  doesn't  ask  me  about  your 
business;  why  should  I  pry  into  her  affairs.' 

Bob.  [Taking  out  his  cigarette  case  and  lighting  a  cigarette.] 
Mollie,  I  see  you're  strong  for  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States. 

Mollie.     [Suspiciously.]    What  do  you  mean  by  that.? 

Bob.  The  Constitution  says:  "Whereas  it  is  a  self-evident 
truth  that  all  men  are  born  equal" —  [With  a  wave  of  the 
hand.]      Hilda  and  you,  and  the  Terrible  Swede  and  I  and 

Mollie.  [Interrupting.]  Bob,  you're  such  a  heathen  I  That's 
not  in  the  Constitution.     That's  in  the  Bible  ! 

Bob.  Well,  wherever  it  is,  until  this  evening  I  never  realized 
what  a  personage  Hilda  is. 

Mollie.  You  can  make  fun  of  me  all  you  please,  but  I  know 
what's  right !  Your  remarks  don't  influence  me  in  the  least — 
not  in  the  least ! 

Bob.  [Murmurs  thoughtfully  and  feelingly.]  How  true! 
[Abruptly.]     Why  don't  they  get  married  .'^     Do  you  know  that  .^^ 

Mollie.  All  I  know  is  that  they  are  waiting  until  his  business 
is  entirely  successful,  so  that  Hilda  won't  have  to  work. 

Bob.  Well,  the  Swedes  are  pretty  careful  of  their  money. 
The  chances  are  Hilda  has  a  neat  little  nest-egg  laid  by. 

Mollie.  [Hesitating  and  doubtfully.]  That's  one  thing  that 
worries  me  a  little.  I  think  Hilda  puts  money — into — into — 
into  the  young  man's  business. 

Bob.  [Indignantly.]  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  girl 
gives  her  money  to  that  fellow  and  you  don't  try  to  find  out  a 
thing  about  him  ?  Who  he  is  or  what  he  does  ?  I  suppose  she 
supports  the  loafer. 

Mollie.  [With  dignity.]  He's  not  a  loafer.  I've  seen  him 
and  I've  talked  with  him,  and  I  know  he's  a  gentleman. 

Bob.     Mollie,  I'm  getting  tired  of  all  that  kind  of  drivel.     I 


314  OSCAR    M.     WOLFF 

believe  nowadaj's  women  give  a  good  deal  more  thought  to 
pleasing  their  maids  than  they  do  to  pleasing  their  husbands. 

MoLLiE.  [Demurely.]  Well,  you  know,  Bob,  your  maid  can 
leave  you  much  easier  than  your  husband  can — [pauses  thought- 
fully] and  I'm  sure  she's  much  harder  to  replace. 

Bob.  [Very  angry,  looking  at  his  watch,  throwing  his  napkin 
on  the  table  and  standing  up.]  Mollie,  our  dinner  has  been  inter- 
rupted for  fifteen  minutes  while  Hilda  entertains  her  [with  sar- 
casm] gentleman  friend.     If  you  won't  stop  it,  I  will. 

[Steps  toward  the  door,  centre. 
Mollie.     [Sternly,    pointing    to    Bob's    chair.]     Robert,    sit 
down ! 

[Bob  pauses,  momentarily,  and  at  the  instant  Hilda  entersy 

centre,  meeting  Bob,  face  to  face.     Both  are  startled. 

Bob,  m  a  surly  mamier,  icalks  hack  to  his  place  at  the 

iable.     Hii^b  a  follows,  excited  and  eager.     Bob  sits  down 

and  Hilda  stands  for  a  moment  at  the  table,  smiling  from 

one  to  the  other  and  evidently  anxious  to  say  something. 

Bob  and  Mollie  are  severe  and  unfriendly.     They  gaze 

at  Hilda  coldly.     Sloivly  PIilda's  enthusiasm  cools,  and 

she  becomes  again  the  impassive  servant. 

Hilda.     Aixcuse  me,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  am  very  sorry. 

I  bring  the  dinner  right  in.  [Hilda  exits  left. 

Bob.     It's  all  nonsense.     [Touches  the  plates  again,  but  this 

time  even  more  cautiously  than  before.     This  time  he  finds  they  are 

entirely  safe  to  handle.]     These  plates  are  stone  cold  now. 

[Hilda  enters,  left,  ivith  meat  platter.     Places  it  before  Bob. 
He  serves  the  meat  and  Mollie  starts  to  serve  the  vege- 
tables.    Hilda  hands  Mollie  her  meat  plate. 
Mollie.     Vegetables  ?     [Bob  is  chetving  on  his  meat  and  does 
not  answer.     Mollie  looks  at  him  inquiringly.     But  his  eyes  are 
on  his  plate.     Repeating.]     Vegetables }     [Still  no  answer  from 
Bob.     Very  softly,  under  her  breath.]     H'mm. 

[Mollie  helps  herself  to  vegetables  and  then  dishes  out  a 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  315 

portion  which  she  hands  to  Hilda,  who  in  turn  places  the 
dish  beside  Bob.  Wheii  both  are  served  Hilda  stands 
for  a  moment  back  of  the  table.  She  clasps  and  unclasps 
her  hands  in  a  nervous  manner,  seems  about  to  speak,  but 
as  Bob  and  Mollie  pay  no  attention  to  her  she  slouiy 
and  reluctantly  turns,  and  exits  left.  Mollie  takes  one 
or  two  bites  of  the  meat  and  then  gives  a  quick  glance  at 
Bob.  He  is  busy  chewing  at  his  meat,  and  Mollie 
quietly  lays  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  turns  to  the 
vegetables. 
Bob.  [Chewing  desperately  on  his  meat.]  Tenderloin,  I  be- 
lieve ? 

Mollie.     [Sweetly.]     Yes,  dear. 

Bob.     [Imitating  Mollie  a  moment  back.]     H'mm  !     [He  takes 
one  or  two  more  hard  bites.]     Mollie,  I  have  an  idea. 
Mollie.     I'm  relieved. 

Bob.  [Savagely.]  Yes,  you  will  be  when  you  hear  it.  When 
we  get  that  builder's  name  from  Fanny  Russell,  we'll  tell  him 
that  instead  of  a  garage,  which  we  don't  need,  he  can  build  a 
special   telephone   booth   off   the   kitchen.     Then   while   Hilda 

serves  the  dinner 

[Bob  stops  short,  as  Hilda  bursts  in  abruptly,  left,  and 
comes  to  the  table. 
Hilda.     Aixcuse  me,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  am  so  excited, 
Mollie.     [Anxiously.]     Is  anything  wrong,  Hilda  ? 
Hilda.     [Explosively.]     Meeses  Aispenhayne,  Meester  Leend- 
quist  he  say  you  want  to  move  to  Highland  Park. 

[Bob  and  Mollie  simultaneously  drop  their  knives  and 
forks  and  look  at  Hilda  in  astonishment  and  wonder. 
Mollie.     What.? 
Bob.     Who? 

Hilda.  [Repeats  very  rapidly.]  Meester  Leendquist,  he  say 
you  look  for  house  on  North  Shore ! 

Mollie.     [  Utterly  overcome  at  Hilda's  knowledge  and  at  a  loss 


316  OSCAR    M.     WOLFF 

for  words  of  denial.]  We  move  to  the  North  Shore  ?  How  ridic- 
ulous !  Hilda,  where  did  you  get  such  an  idea?  [Turns  to 
Robert.]  Robert,  did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  laughable? 
[She  forces  a  strained  laugh.]  Ha !  Ha !  Ha !  [Robert  has  been 
looking  at  Hilda  in  dumb  wonder.  At  Mollie's  question  he 
turns  to  her  in  startled  surprise.  He  starts  to  answer,  gulps,  swal- 
lows hard,  and  then  coughs  violently.  Very  sharply,  after  waiting 
a  moment  for  Bob  to  answer.]  Robert  Espenhayne,  will  you 
stop  that  coughing  and  answer  me ! 

Bob.  [Between  coughs,  and  drinking  a  glass  of  water.]  Egh  ! 
Egh  !     Excuse  me  !     Something,  eh  !  egh  !  stuck  in  my  throat. 

MoLLiE.  [Turning  to  Hilda.]  Some  day  we  might  want  to 
move  north,  Hilda,  but  not  now  !     Oh,  no,  not  now ! 

Bob.     Who  told  you  that,  Hilda  ? 

Hilda.     Meester  Leendquist. 

MoLLiE.     [Puzzled.]     Who  is  Mr.  Lindquist.? 

Hilda.  [Surprised.]  Meester  Leendquist —  [Pauses,  a  trifle 
embarrassed.]  Meester  Leendquist  ees  young  man  who  just 
speak  to  me  on  telephone.     He  come  to  see  me  every  Saturday. 

Bob.     Oh,  Mr.  Lindquist,  the— the— Ter 

MoLLiE.  [Interrupting  frantically,  and  waving  her  hands  at 
Bob.]  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  You  know — Mr.  Lindquist !  [Bob 
catches  himself  just  in  time  and  Mollie  settles  back  zvith  a  sigh  of 
relief,  then  turns  to  Hilda  with  a  puzzled  air.]  But  where  did  Mr. 
Lindquist  get  such  an  idea  ? 

Hilda.     Mrs.  Russell  tell  heem  so. 

Mollie.     [Now  e?itirely  beivildered.]     What  Mrs.  Russell  ? 

Hilda.     Meeses  Russell — your  friend. 

Mollie.  [More  and  more  at  sea.]  Mrs.  Edwin  Russell,  who 
comes  to  see  me — every  now  and  then  ? 

Hilda.     Yes. 

Mollie.  But  how  does  Mrs.  Russell  know  Mr.  Lindquist 
and  why  should  she  tell  Mr.  Lindquist  that  we  expected  to  move 
to  the  North  Shore  ? 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  317 

Hilda.  Meester  Leendquist,  lie  build  Meeses  Russell's  house. 
That  ees  hees  business.  He  build  houses  on  North  Shore  and 
he  sell  them  and  rent  them. 

[Bob  and  Mollie  look  at  each  other  and  at  Hilda  in  won- 
der and  astonishment  as  the  situation  slowly  filters  into 
their  brains.     A  long  pause.] 

Bob.  [In  awe  and  astonishment.]  You  mean  that  Mr.  Lind- 
quist,  the  3"oung  man  who  comes  to  see  you  every — every — 
every  now  and  then — is  the  same  man  who  put  up  the  Russell 
house  ? 

Hilda.     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne. 

Bob.  [Slowly.]  And  when  Mrs.  Espenhayne  [points  to  Mol- 
lie] wrote  to  Mrs.  Russell  [jerks  his  thumb  to  indicate  the  north], 
Mrs.  Russell  told  Mr.  Lindquist  [jerks  his  thumb  in  opposite 
direction]  and  Mr.  Lindquist  telephoned  to  you  ? 

[Points  to  Hilda. 

Hilda.     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne.  [Nodding. 

Bob.  [Very  thoughtfully  and  slowly.]  H'mm !  [Then  slowly 
resuming  his  meal  and  speaking  in  mock  seriousness,  in  subtle  jest 
at  Mollie,  and  imitating  her  tone  of  a  moment  or  two  back.]  But 
of  course,  you  understand,  Hilda,  we  don't  want  to  move  to  the 
North  Shore  now  !     Oh,  no,  not  now ! 

Hilda.     [Somewhat  crestfallen.]     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne. 

Bob.  [Reflectively.]  But,  of  course,  if  Mr.  Lindquist  builds 
houses,  we  might  look.     Yes,  we  might  look. 

Hilda.  [In  growing  confidence  and  enthusiasm.]  Yes,  Meester 
Aispenhayne,  and  he  build  such  beautiful  houses  and  so  cheap. 
He  do  so  much  heemself.  Hees  father  was  carpenter  and  he 
work  hees  way  through  Uneeversity  of  Mennesota  and  study 
architecture  and  then  he  go  to  Uneeversity  of  Eelenois  and  study 
landscape  gardening  and  now  he  been  in  business  for  heemself 
sex  years.  And  oh,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  you  must  see  hees 
own  home !  You  will  love  eet,  eet  ees  so  beautiful.  A  little 
house,  far  back  from  the  road.     You  can  hardly  see  eet  for  the 


318  OSCAR     M.     WOLFF 

trees  and  the  shrubs,  and  een  the  summer  the  roses  grow  all 
around  eet.     Eet  is  just  like  the  picture  book ! 

MoLLiE.  [In  the  most  perfunctory  tone,  utterly  without  interest 
or  enthusiasm.]  How  charming !  [Pauses  thoughtfully,  then 
turns  to  Hilda,  anxiously.]  Then  I  suppose,  Hilda,  if  we  should 
decide  to  move  up  to  the  North  Shore  you  would  go  with  us  ? 

Hilda.  [Hesitatingly.]  Yes,  Meeses  Aispenhayne.  [Pauses.] 
But  I  theenk  I  must  tell  you  thees  spring  Meester  Leendquist 
and  I  aixpect  to  get  married.  Meester  Leendquist's  business 
ees  very  good.  [With  a  quick  smile  and  a  glance  from  one  to  the 
other.]  You  know,  I  am  partner  with  heem.  I  put  all  my 
money  een  Meester  Leendquist's  business  too. 

[MoLLiE  and  Bob  gaze  at  each  other  in  complete  resignation 
and  surrender. 
Bob.     [Quite  seriously  after  a  long  pause.]     Hilda,  I  don't  know 
whether  we  will  move  north  or  not,  but  the  next  time  Mr.  Lind- 
quist  comes  here  I  want  you  to  introduce  me  to  him.     I'd  like 
to  know  him.     You  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  a  man  like  that. 
Hilda.     [Radiant  with  pleasure.]     Thank  you,  Meester  Ais- 
penhayne. 

MoLLiE.  Yes,  indeed,  Hilda,  Mr.  Espenhayne  has  often  said 
what  a  fine  .young  man  Mr.  Lindquist  seems  to  be.  We  want 
to  meet  him,  and  Mr.  Espenhayne  and  I  will  talk  about  the 
house,  and  then  we  will  speak  to  Mr.  Lindquist.  [Then  weakly.] 
Of  course,  we  didn't  expect  to  move  north  for  a  long  time,  but, 
of  course,  if  you  expect  to  get  married,  and  Mr.  Lindquist  builds 

houses [Her  voice  dies  out.     Loiig  pause. 

Hilda.  Thank  you,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  tell  Mr.  Leend- 
quist. 

[Hilda  stands  at  the  table  a  moment  longer,  then  slowly  turns 
and  moves  toward  door,  left.  Bob  and  Mollie  ivatch  her 
and  as  she  moves  away  from  the  table  Bob  turns  to 
Mollis.  At  this  moment  Hilda  stops,  turns  suddenly 
and  returns  to  the  table. 


WHERE    BUT    IN    AMERICA  319 

Hilda.     Oh,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  forget  one  theeng ! 

MoLLiE.     What  now,  Hilda  ? 

Hilda.  Meester  Leendquist  say  eef  you  and  Meester  Aispen- 
hayne want  to  look  at  property  on  North  Shore,  I  shall  let  heem 
know  and  he  meet  you  at  station  weeth  hees  automobile. 

CURTAIN 


A  DOLLAR 

BY 

DAVID  PINSKI 


A  Dollar  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  David  Pinski  and  of 
B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York  City,  the  publisher  of  David  Pinski's  Ten 
Plays,  from  which  this  play  is  taken.  All  rights  reserved.  For  per- 
mission to  perform  address  the  publisher. 


DAVID  PINSKI 

David  Pinski,  perhaps  the  most  notable  dramatist  of  the 
Yiddish  Theatre,  was  born  of  Jewish  parentage  April  5,  1872, 
in  Mohilev,  on  the  Dnieper,  White  Russia.  Because  his  parents 
had  rabbinical  aspirations  for  him  he  was  well  educated  in  He- 
brew studies  (Bible  and  Talmud)  by  his  fourteenth  year,  when 
he  moved  to  Moscow,  where  he  was  further  trained  in  classical 
and  secular  studies.  In  1891  he  planned  to  study  medicine  in 
Vienna,  but  soon  returned  to  Warsaw,  where  he  began  his  lit- 
erary work  as  a  short-story  writer.  In  189G  he  took  up  the 
study  of  philosophy  and  literature,  and  in  1899  wrote  his  first 
plays.  In  1899  he  came  to  New  York  City,  where  he  is  now 
editor  of  the  Jewish  daily.  Die  Zeit.  In  1911  he  revisited  Ger- 
many to  see  a  production  of  his  well-known  comedy,  The  Treas- 
ure, by  Max  Reinhart. 

Mr.  Pinski  is  zealous  in  his  interests  in  literature,  drama, 
socialism,  and  Zionism.  Drama  is  to  him  an  interpretation  of 
life,  and  a  guide  and  leader,  as  were  the  words  of  the  old  poets 
and  prophets.  "The  dramatic  technique,"  says  he,  "changes 
with  each  plot,  as  each  plot  brings  with  it  its  own  technique. 
One  thing,  however,  must  be  common  to  all  the  different  forms 
of  the  dramatic  technique — avoidance  of  tediousness." 

Mr.  Pinski  has  written  a  goodly  number  of  plays,  most  of 
which  are  on  Yiddish  themes.  Forgotten  Souls,  The  Stranger^ 
Sufferings,  The  Treasure,  The  PJionograph,  and  A  Dollar  may  be 
mentioned.  Most  of  his  plays  have  been  produced  many  times; 
The  Stranger  played  the  third  season  in  IMoscow. 

"I  wrote  A  Dollar,"  says  he,  "in  the  summer  of  1913,  when  I 
was  hard  pressed  financially.  I  relieved  myself  of  my  feelings 
by  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  almighty  dollar  and  the  race  for  it. 
Just  as  I  did  many  summers  before,  m  1906,  when  I  entertained 
myself  by  ridiculing  the  mad  money  joy  in  the  bigger  comedy. 
The  Treasure." 


PERSONS 

The  Characters  are  given  in  the  order  of  their  appearance. 
The  Comedian 
The  Villain 
The  Tragedian 

Actor  who  plays  "Old  Man"  role 
The  Heroine 
The  Ingenue 

Actress  who  plays  "Old  Woman"  role 
The  Stranger 


A  DOLLAR 

A  cross-roads  at  the  edge  of  a  forest.  One  road  extends  from  left 
to  right ;  the  other  crosses  the  first  diagonally,  disappearing 
into  the  forest.  The  roadside  is  bordered  with  grass.  On  the 
right,  at  the  crossing,  stands  a  sign-post,  to  which  are  nailed 
two  hoards,  giving  directions  and  distances. 

The  afternoon  of  a  summer  day.  A  troupe  of  stranded  strolling 
players  enters  from  the  left.  They  are  ragged  and  weary. 
The  Comedian  walks  first,  holding  a  valise  in  each  hand,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Villain  carrying  over  his  arms  two  huge  bundles 
ivrapped  in  bed-sheets.  Immediately  behind  these  the  Trage- 
dian and  the  "Old  Man"  carrying  together  a  large,  heavy 
trunk. 

Comedian.  [Stepping  toward  the  sign-post,  reading  the  direc- 
tions on  the  boards,  and  explaining  to  the  approaching  fellow- 
actors.]  That  way  [pointing  to  right  and  stvinging  the  valise  to 
indicate  the  direction]  is  thirty  miles.  This  way  [pointing  to  left] 
is  forty-five — and  that  way  it  is  thirty-six.  Now  choose  for 
yourself  the  town  that  you'll  never  reach  to-day.  The  nearest 
way  for  us  is  back  to  where  we  came  from,  whence  we  were 
escorted  with  the  most  splendid  catcalls  that  ever  crowned  our 
histrionic  successes. 

Villain.  [Exhausted.]  Who  will  lend  me  a  hand  to  wipe  off 
my  perspiration  ?  It  has  a  nasty  way  of  streaming  into  my 
mouth. 

Comedian.  Stand  on  your  head,  then,  and  let  your  perspira- 
tion water  a  more  fruitful  soil. 

Villain.     Oh ! 

325 


326  DAVID    PINSKI 

[He  drops  his  arms,  the  bundles  fall  down.     He  then  sinks 

down  onto  one  of  them  and  wipes  off  the  perspiration, 

moving  his  hand  wearily  over  his  face.     The  Tragedian 

and  the  "Old  Man"  approach  the  post  and  read  the 

signs. 

Tragedian.     [In  a  deep,  dramatic  voice.]     It's  hopeless  !     It's 

hopeless  !  [He  lets  go  his  end  of  the  trunk. 

"Old  Man."     [Lets  go  his  end  of  the  trunk.]     Mm.     Another 

stop. 

[Tragedian  sits  himself  down  on  the  trunk  in  a  tragico- 

heroic  pose,  knees  wide  apart,  right  elbow  on  right  knee, 

left  hand  on  left  leg,  head  slightly  bent  toward  the  right. 

Comedian  puts  down  the  valises  and  rolls  a  cigarette. 

The  "Old  IVIan"  also  sits  down  upon  the  trunk,  head 

sunk  upon  his  breast. 

Villain.     Thirty  miles  to  the  nearest  town  !     Thirty  miles ! 

Comedian.     It's  an  outrage  how  far  people  move  their  towns 

away  from  us. 

Villain.  We  won't  strike  a  town  until  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. 

Comedian.  Kurrah !  That's  luck  for  you !  There's  yet  a 
day-after-to-moiTow  for  us. 

Villain.  And  the  old  women  are  still  far  behind  us.  Crawl- 
ing ! 

"Old  Man."     They  want  the  vote  and  they  can't  even  walk. 
Comedian.     We  won't  give  them  votes,  that's  settled.     Down 
with  votes  for  women ! 

Villain.  It  seems  the  devil  himself  can't  take  you  !  Neither 
your  tongue  nor  your  feet  ever  get  tired.  You  get  on  my  nerves. 
Sit  down  and  shut  up  for  a  moment. 

Comedian.     Me  ?     Ha — ha  !     I'm  going  back  there  to  the 
lady  of  my  heart.     I'll  meet  her  and  fetch  her  hither  in  my  arms. 
[He  spits  on  his  hands,  turns  up  his  sleeves,  and  strides  rap- 
idly off  toward  the  left. 
Villain.     Clown ! 


A    DOLLAR  327 

"Old  Man.'*  How  can  he  laugh  and  play  his  pranks  even 
now?  We  haven't  a  cent  to  our  souls,  our  supply  of  food  is 
running  low  and  our  shoes  are  dilapidated. 

Tragedian.  [With  an  outburst.]  Stop  it !  No  reckoning ! 
The  number  of  our  sins  is  great  and  the  tale  of  our  misfortunes 
is  even  greater.  Holy  Father!  Our  flasks  are  empty;  I'd  give 
what  is  left  of  our  soles  [displaying  his  ragged  shoes]  for  just  a 
smell  of  whiskey. 

[From  the  left  is  heard  the  laughter  of  a  woman.     Enter  the 
Comedian  carrying  in  his  arms  the  Heroine,  who  has 
her  hands  around  his  neck  and  holds  a  satchel  in  both 
hands  behind  his  back. 
Comedian.     [Letting  his  burden  down  upon  the  grass.]     Sit 
down,  my  love,  and  rest  up.     We  go  no  further  to-day.     Your 
feet,  your  tender  little  feet  must  ache  you.     How  unhappy  that 
makes  me !     At  the  first  opportunity  I  shall  buy  you  an  auto- 
mobile. 

Heroine.     And  in  the  meantime  you  may  carry  me  oftener. 
Comedian.     The  beast  of  burden  hears  and  obeys. 

[Enter  the  Ingenue  and  the  "Old  Woman,"  each  carrying 
a  small  satchel. 
Ingenue.     [Weary  and  pouting.]     Ah!     No  one  carried  m^. 

[She  sits  on  the  grass  to  the  right  of  the  Heroine. 
Villain.     We  have  only  one  ass  with  us. 

[Comedian  stretches  himself  out  at  the  feet  of  the  Heroine 
and  emits  the  bray  of  a  donkey.     "Old  Woman"  sits 
down  on  the  grass  to  the  left  of  the  Heroine. 
"Old  Woman."     And  are  we  to  pass  the  night  here.? 
"Old  Man."     No,  we  shall  stop  at  "Hotel  Neverwas.** 
Comedian.     Don't  you  like  our  night's  lodgings.?     [Turning 
over  toward  the  "Old  Woman."]     See,  the  bed  is  broad  and  wide, 
and  certainly  without  vermin.     Just  feel  the  high  grass.     Such 
a  soft  bed  you  never  slept  in.     And  you  shall  have  a  cover  em- 
broidered with  the  moon  and  stars,  a  cover  such  as  no  royal 
bride  ever  possessed. 


328  DAVID    PINSKI 

"Old  Woman."     You're  laughing,  and  I  feel  like  crying. 
Comedian.     Crying.^     You  should  be  ashamed  of  the  sun 
which  favors  you  with  its  setting  splendor.     Look,  and  be  in- 
spired ! 

V1LL.A.1N.     Yes,  look  and  expire. 
Comedian.     Look,  and  shout  with  ecstasy ! 
"Old  Man."     Look,  and  burst ! 

[Ingenue  starts  sobbing.     Tragedian  laughs  hoavili/. 
Comedian.     [Turning  over  to  the  Ingenue.]     What !     You  are 
crying  ?     Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ? 
Ingenue.     I'm  sad. 

"Old  Woman."     [Sniffling.]     I  can't  stand  it  any  longer. 
Heroine.     Stop  it !     Or  I'll  start  bawling,  too. 

[Comedian  springs  to  his  knees  a7id  looks  quickly  from  one 
woman  to  the  other. 
Villain.     Ha — ha !     Cheer  them  up,  clown  ! 
Comedian.     [Jumps  up  abruptly  without  the  aid  of  his  hands.] 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  it !     [In  a  measured  and  singing 
voice.]     Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  it ! 
Heroine.     What  have  you  ? 
Comedian.     Cheerfulness. 
Villain.     Go  bury  yourself,  clown. 
Tragedian.     [As  before.]     Ho-ho-ho ! 
"Old  Man."     P-o-o-h! 

[The  women  weep  all  the  louder. 
Comedian.     I  have — a  bottle  of  whiskey ! 

[General  commotion.     The  women  stop  crying  and  look  up 
to  the  Comedian  in  amazement;  the  Tragedian  straight- 
ens himself  out  and  casts  a  surprised  look  at  the  Come- 
dian; the  "Old  Man,"  rubbing  his  hands,  jumps  to  his 
feet ;  the  Villain  looks  suspiciously  at  the  Comedian. 
Tragedian.     A  bottle  of  whiskey  .'* 
"Old  Man."     He-he-he — A  bottle  of  whiskey. 
Villain.     Hum — whiskey. 


A    DOLLAR  829 

ConTEDiAN.  You  bet !  A  bottle  of  whiskey,  hidden  and  pre- 
served for  such  moments  as  this,  a  moment  of  masculine  depres- 
«ion  and  feminine  tears. 

[Taking  the  flask  from  his  hip  pocket.     The  expression  on 
the  faces  of  all  changes  from  hope  to  disappointment. 
Villain.     You  call  that  a  bottle.     I  call  it  a  flask. 
Tragedian.     [Explosively.]     A  thimble ! 
"Old  Man."     A  dropper! 
"Old  Woman."     For  seven  of  us  !     Oh! 
Comedian.     [Letting  the  flash  sparkle  in  the  sun.]     But  it's 
whiskey,    my    children.     [Opening    the  flask    and   smelling    it.] 
U-u-u-m !     That's  whiskey  for   you.     The   saloonkeeper  from 
whom  I  hooked  it  will  become  a  teetotaler  from  sheer  despair. 
[Tragedian  rising  heavily  and  slowly  proceeding  toward 
the  flask.     Villain  still  skeptical  and  rising  as  if  un- 
willing.    The  "Old  ]Man"  chuckling  and  rubbing  his 
hands.     The   "Old   Woman"   getting  up   indifferently 
and  moving  apathetically  toward  the  flask.     The  Hero- 
ine and  Ingenue  hold  each  other  by  the  hand  and  take 
ballet  steps  in  waltz  time.     All  approach  the  Comedian 
with  necks  eagerly  stretched  out  and  smell  the  flask,  which 
the  Comedian  holds  firmly  in  both  hands. 
Tragedian.     Ho-ho-ho — Fine ! 

"Old  Man."     He-he — Small  quantity,  but  excellent  quality  \ 
Villain.     Seems  to  be  good  whiskey. 

Heroine.  [Dancing  and  singing.  My  comedian,  my  come- 
dian. Kis  head  is  in  the  right  place.  But  why  didn't  you  nab 
a  larger  bottle  ^ 

Comedian.     My  beloved  one,  I  had  to  take  in  consideration 
both  the  quality  of  the  whiskey  and  the  size  of  my  pocket. 
"Old  Woman."     If  only  there's  enough  of  it  to  go  round. 
Ingenue.     Oh,  I'm  feeling  sad  again. 

Comedian.  Cheer  up,  there  will  be  enough  for  us  all.  Cheer 
«p.     Here,  smell  it  again. 


330  DAVID    PINSKI 

{They  smell  again  and  cheerfulness  reappears.     They  join 
hands  and  dance  and  sing,  forming  a  circle,  the  Come- 
dian applauding. 
Comedian.     Good !     If  you  are  so  cheered  after  a  mere  smell 
of  it,  what  won't  you  feel  like  after  a  drink.     Wait,  111  join  you. 
[He  hides  the  whiskey  flash  in  his  pocket.]     I'll  show  you  a  new 
roundel  which  we  will  perform  in  our  next  presentation  of  Ham- 
let, to  the  great  edification  of  our  esteemed  audience.     [Kicking 
the  Villain's  bundles  out  of  the  icay.]     The  place  is  clear,  now 
for  dance  and  play.     Join  hands  and  form  a  circle,  but  you.  Vil- 
lain, stay  on  the  outside  of  it.     You  are  to  try  to  get  in  and  we 
dance  and  are  not  to  let  you  in,  without  getting  out  of  step. 
Understand  ?     Now  then  ! 

{The  circle  is  formed  in  the  following  order — Comedlan, 
Heroine,  Tragediajn,  "Old  Woman,"  "Old  Man,'* 
Ingenue. 
Comedian.     [Singing.] 

To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question. 

That  is  the  question,  that  is  the  question. 
He  who  would  enter  in, 

Climb  he  must  over  us. 
If  over  he  cannot. 

He  must  get  under  us. 

REFRAIN 

Tra-la-la,  tra-la-la. 

Over  us,  under  us. 
Tra-la-la,  tra-la-la. 

Under  us,  over  us. 
Now  we  are  jolly,  jolly  are  we. 

[The  Comedian  sings  the  refrain  alone  ai  first  and  the  others 
repeat  it  together  with  him. 


A    DOLLAR  331 

Comedian. 

To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question. 

That  is  the  question,  that  is  the  question. 
In  life  to  win  success. 

Elbow  your  way  through. 
Jostle  the  next  one. 

Else  you  will  be  jostled. 

REFRAIN 

[Same  as  before.] 

[On  the  last  word  of  the  refrain  they  stop  as  if  dumbfounded, 
and  stand  transfixed^  with  eyes  directed  on  one  spot  inside 
of  the  ring.  The  Villain  lea7is  over  the  arms  of  the 
Comedian  and  the  Heroine;  gradually  the  circle  draws 
closer  till  their  heads  almost  touch.  They  attempt  to  free 
their  hands  but  each  holds  on  to  the  other  and  all  seven 
whisper  in  great  astonishment. 

All.     a  dollar ! 

[The  circle  opens  up  again,  they  look  each  at  the  other  and 
shout  in  wonder. 

All.     a  dollar ! 

[Once  more  they  close  in  and  the  struggle  to  free  their  hands 
grows  wilder ;  the  Villain  tries  to  climb  over  and  then 
under  the  hands  into  the  circle  and  stretches  out  his  hand 
toward  the  dollar,  but  instinctively  he  is  stopped  by  the 
couple  he  tries  to  pass  between,  even  when  he  is  not  seen 
but  only  felt.  Again  all  lean  their  heads  over  the  dollar, 
quite  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  it,  and  whispering, 
enraptured. 

All.     a  dollar ! 

[Separating  once  again  they  look  at  each  other  with  exulta- 
tion and  at  the  same  time  try  to  free  their  hands,  once 
more  exclaiming  in  ecstasy. 

All.     a  dollar ! 


332  DAVID    PINSKI 

[Then  the  struggle  to  get  free  grows  wilder  and  wilder.     Hit 
hand  that  is  perchance  freed  is  quickly  grasped  again  hy 
the  one  who  held  it. 
Ingenue.     [In  pain.]     Oh,   my  hands,   my   hands !     You'll 
break  them.     Let  go  of  my  hands  ! 

"Old  Woman."     If  you  don't  let  go  of  my  hands  I'll  bite. 

[Attempting  to  bite  the  hands  of  the  TaAGEDLVN  and  the 

"Old  Man,"  while  they  try  to  prevent  it. 

"Old  ]Man."     [Trying  to  free  his  hands  from  the  hold  of  the 

Heroine  and  the  "Old  Woman."]     Let  go  of  me.     [Pulling  at 

both  his  hands.]     These  women's  hands  that — seem  so  frail,  just 

look  at  them  now. 

Heroine.     [To  Comedian.]     But  you  let  go  my  hands. 
Comedian.     I  think  it's  you  who  are  holding  fast  to  mine. 
Heroine.     ^ATiy  should  I  be  holding  you.^     If  you  pick  up 
the  dollar,  what  is  yours  is  mine,  you  know. 

Comedian.     Then  let  go  of  my  hand  and  I'll  pick  it  up. 
Heroine.     No,  I'd  rather  pick  it  up  myself. 
Comedian.     I  expected  something  like  that  from  you. 
Heroine.     [Angrily.]     Let  go  of  my  hands,  that's  all. 
Comedian.      Ha-ha-ha — It's   a   huge   joke.      [In  a  tone  of 
jommand.]     Be  quiet.     [They  become  still.]     We  must  contem- 
plate the  dollar  with  religious  reverence.     [Commotion.]     Keep 
quiet,  I  say !     A  dollar  is  spread  out  before  us.     A  real  dollar  in 
the  midst  of  our  circle,  and  everything  within  us  draws  us 
toward  it,  draws  us  on  irresistibly.     Be  quiet !     Remember  you 
are  before  the  Ruler,  before  the  Almighty.     On  your  knees  be- 
fore him  and  pray.     On  your  knees. 

[Sinks  down  on  his  knees  and  drags  with  him  the  Heroine 
and  Ingenue.     "Old  Man"  dropping  on  his  knees  and 
dragging  the  "Old  Woman"  with  him. 
"Old  Man."     He-he-he! 
Tragedl^n.     Ho-ho-ho,  clown ! 
Comedian.     [To  Tragedian.]     You  are  not  worthy  of  the 


A    DOLLAR  333 

serious  mask  you  wear.  You  don't  appreciate  true  Divine  Maj- 
esty. On  your  knees,  or  you'll  get  no  whiskey.  [Tragedian 
sinks  heavily  on  his  knees.]  O  holy  dollar,  O  almighty  ruler  of 
the  universe,  before  thee  we  kneel  in  the  dust  and  send  toward 
thee  our  most  tearful  and  heartfelt  prayers.  Our  hands  are 
bound,  but  our  hearts  strive  toward  thee  and  our  souls  yearn 
for  thee.  O  great  king  of  kings,  thou  who  bringest  together 
those  who  are  separated,  and  separatest  those  who  are  near, 

thou  who 

[The  Villain,  who  is  standing  aside,  takes  a  full  jump, 
clears  the  Ingenue  and  grasps  the  dollar.  All  let  go  of 
one  another  and  fall  upon  him,  shouting,  screaming,  push- 
ing, and  fighting.  Finally  the  Villain  manages  to  free 
himself,  holding  the  dollar  in  his  right  fist.  The  others 
follow  him  with  clenched  fists,  glaring  eyes,  and  foaming 
mouths,  wildly  shouting. 
All.  The  dollar!  The  dollar!  The  dollar!  Return  the 
dollar ! 

Villain.     [Retreating.]     You  can't  take  it  away  from  me;  it's 
mine.     It  was  lying  under  my  bundle. 

All.     Give  up  the  dollar !     Give  up  the  dollar  ! 
Villain.     [Tn  great  rage.]     No,  no.     [A  moment  during  which 
the  opposing  sides  look  at  each  other  in  hatred.     Quietly  but  with 
malice.]     Moreover,  whom  should  I  give  it  to  ?     To  you — you — ■ 


you — you 


Comedian.  Ha-ha-ha-ha !  He  is  right,  the  dollar  is  his. 
He  has  it,  therefore  it  is  his.  Ha-ha-ha-ha,  and  I  wanted  to 
crawl  on  my  knees  toward  the  dollar  and  pick  it  up  with  my 
teeth.     Ha-ha-ha-ha,  but  he  got  ahead  of  me.  Ha-ha-ha-ha. 

Heroine.  [Whispering  in  rage.]  That's  because  you  would 
not  let  go  of  me. 

Comedian.     Ha-ha-ha-ha ! 

Tragedian.  [Shaking  his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  Villain.] 
Heaven  and  hell,  I  feel  like  crushing  you ! 


334  DAVID    PINSKI 

[He  steps  aside  toward  the  trunk  and  sits  down  in  his  former 
pose.     Ingenue,  lying  down  on  the  grass,  starts  to  cry. 

Comedian.     Ha-ha-ha!     Now  we  will  drink,  and  the  first 
ckink  is  the  Villain's. 

[His  proposition  is  accepted  in  gloom;  the  Ingenue,  how- 
ever, stops  crying;  the  "Old  IVIan"  and  the  "Old 
Woman"  have  been  standing  by  the  Villain  looking  at 
the  dollar  in  his  hand  as  if  waiting  for  the  proper  moment 
to  snatch  it  from  him.  Finally  the  "  Old  Woman  "  makes 
a  contemptuous  gesture  and  both  turn  aside  from  the  Vil- 
lain. The  latter,  left  in  peace,  smooths  out  the  dollar, 
with  a  serious  expression  on  his  face.  The  Comedian 
hands  him  a  small  glass  of  whiskey. 

Comedian.     Drink,  lucky  one. 

[The  Villain,  shutting  the  dollar  in  his  fist,  takes  the 
whiskey  glass  gravely  and  quickly  drinks  the  contents,  re- 
turning the  glass.  He  then  starts  to  smooth  and  caress 
the  dollar  again.  The  Comedian,  still  laughing,  passes 
the  whiskey  glass  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  company, 
who  drink  sullenly.  The  whiskey  fails  to  cheer  them. 
After  drinking,  the  Ingenue  begins  to  sob  again.  The 
Heroine,  icho  is  served  last,  throws  the  empty  whiskey 
glass  toward  the  Comedian. 

Comedian.     Good  shot.     Now  I'll  drink  up  all  that's  left  in 
the  bottle. 

[He  puts  the  flask  to  his  lips  and  drinks.  The  Heroine 
tries  to  knock  it  away  from  him,  but  he  skilfully  evades 
her.  The  Villain  continues  to  smooth  and  caress  the 
dollar. 

Villain.     Ha-ha-ha  !  .  .  .  [Singing  and  dancing. 

He  who  would  enter  in. 
Jump  he  must  over  us. 

Ho-ho-ho!     O   Holy   Dollar!     O    Almighty    Ruler   of    the 
World!  .  .  .     O  King  of  Kings!     Ha-ha-ha!  .  .  .    Don't  you 


A    DOLLAR  335 

all  think  if  I  have  the  dollar  and  you  have  it  not  that  I  partake 
a  bit  of  its  majesty?  That  means  that  I  am  now  a  part  of  its 
majesty.  That  means  that  I  am  the  Almighty  Dollar's  plenipo- 
tentiary, and  therefore  I  am  the  Almighty  Ruler  himself.  On 
your  knees  before  me !  .  .  .     He-he-he  !  .  ,  . 

Comedian.  [After  throwing  away  the  empty  flask,  lies  down  on 
the  grass.]  Well  roared,  lion,  but  you  forgot  to  hide  your  jack- 
ass's ears. 

Villain.  It  is  one's  consciousness  of  power.  He-he-he.  I 
know  and  you  know  that  if  I  have  the  money  I  have  the  say. 
Remember,  none  of  you  has  a  cent  to  his  name.  The  whiskey  is 
gone.  [Picking  up  the  flask  and  examining  it. 

Comedian.     I  did  my  job  well.     Drank  it  to  the  last  drop. 

Villain.  Yes,  to  the  last  drop.  This  evening  you  shall  have 
bread  and  sausage.  Very  small  portions,  too,  for  to-morrow  is 
another  day.  [Ingenue  sobbing  more  frequently.]  Not  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow  shall  we  reach  town,  and  that  doesn't  mean 
that  you  get  anything  to  eat  there,  either,  but  I — I — I — he-he- 
he.  O  Holy  Dollar,  Almighty  Dollar!  [Gravely.]  He  who 
does  my  bidding  shall  not  be  without  food. 

Comedian.     [With  wide-open  eyes.]     What  ?     Ha-ha-ha ! 

[Ingenue  gets  up  and  throws  herself  on  the  Villain's 
bosom. 

Ingenue.     Oh,  my  dear  beloved  one. 

Villain.     Ha-ha,  my  power  already  makes  itself  felt. 

Heroine.  [Pushing  the  Ingenue  away.]  Let  go  of  him,  you. 
He  sought  my  love  for  a  long  time  and  now  he  shall  have  it. 

Comedian.     What  ?    You ! 

Heroine.  [To  Comedian.]  I  hate  you,  traitor.  [To  the 
Villain.]  I  have  always  loved — genius.  You  are  now  the 
wisest  of  the  wise.     I  adore  you. 

Villain.  [Holding  Ingenue  in  one  arm.]  Come  into  my 
other  arm. 

[Heroine,  throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  kissing  and  em- 
bracing him. 


8S6  DAVID    PINSKI 

Comedian.  [Half  rising  on  his  knees.]  Stop,  I  protest. 
[Throwing  himself  on  the  grass.]     "O  frailty,  thy  name  is  woman." 

"Old  Woman."  [Approaching  the  Villain /ro/n.  behind  and 
embracing  him.]  Find  a  little  spot  on  your  bosom  for  me.  I 
play  the  "Old  Woman,"  but  you  know  I'm  not  really  old. 

Villain.     Now  I  have  all  of  power  and  all  of  love. 

Comedian.     Don't  call  it  love.     Call  it  servility. 

Villain.  [Freeing  himself  from  the  women.]  But  now  I  have 
something  more  important  to  carry  out.  My  vassals — I  mean 
you  all — I  have  decided  we  will  not  stay  here  over  night.  We 
will  proceed  further. 

Women.     How  so  ? 

Villain.     We  go  forward  to-night. 

Comedian.     You  have  so  decided  ? 

Villain.  I  have  so  decided,  and  that  in  itself  should  be 
enough  for  you;  but  due  to  an  old  habit  I  shall  explain  to  you 
why  I  have  so  decided. 

Comedian.  Keep  your  explanation  to  yourself  and  better 
not  disturb  my  contemplation  of  the  sunset. 

Villain.  I'll  put  you  down  on  the  blacklist.  It  will  go  ill 
with  you  for  your  speeches  against  me.  Now,  then,  without  an 
explanation,  we  will  go — and  at  once.  [Nobody  stirs.]  Very 
well,  then,  I  go  alone. 

Women.    No,  no. 

Villain.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Ingenue.     I  go  with  you. 

Heroine.     And  I. 

"Old  Woman."     And  I. 

Villain.     Your  loyalty  gratifies  me  very  much. 

"Old  ]Man."  [Who  is  sitting  apathetically  upon  the  trunk.] 
What  the  deuce  is  urging  you  to  go  ? 

Villain.  I  wanted  to  explain  to  you,  but  now  no  more.  I 
owe  you  no  explanations.  I  have  decided — I  wish  to  go,  and 
that  is  sufficient. 


A    DOLLAR  337 

Comedian.  He  plays  his  comedy  wonderfully.  Would  you 
ever  have  suspected  that  there  was  so  much  wit  in  his  cabbage 
head  ? 

Women.     [Making  love  to  tlie  Villain.]     Oh,  you  darling. 

Tragedian.  [Majestically.]  I  wouldn't  give  him  even  a  sin- 
gle glance. 

Villain.  Still  another  on  the  blacklist.  I'll  tell  you  this 
much — I  have  decided 

Comedian.     Ha-ha-ha !     How  long  will  you  keep  this  up  ? 

Villain.  We  start  at  once,  but  if  I  am  to  pay  for  your  food 
I  will  not  carry  any  baggage.  You  shall  divide  my  bundles 
among  you  and  of  course  those  who  are  on  the  blacklist  will  get 
the  heaviest  share.  You  heard  me.  Now  move  on.  I'm  going 
now.  We  will  proceed  to  the  nearest  town,  which  is  thirty  miles 
away.     Now,  then,  I  am  ofiP. 

Comedian.    Bon  voyage. 

Villain.  And  with  me  fares  His  Majesty  the  Dollar  and 
your  meals  for  to-morrow. 

Women.     We  are  coming,  we  are  coming. 

"Old  Man."     I'll  go  along. 

Tragedian.  [To  the  Villain.]  You're  a  scoundrel  and  a 
mean  fellow. 

Villain.  I  am  no  fellow  of  yours.  I  am  master  and  bread- 
giver. 

Tragedian.     I'll  crush  you  in  a  moment. 

Villain.     What  ?     You  threaten  me  !     Let's  go. 

[Turns  to  right.     The  women  take  their  satchels  and  follow 
him. 

"Old  Man."  [To  the  Tragedian.]  Get  up  and  take  the 
trunk.  We  will  settle  the  score  with  him  some  other  time.  It 
is  he  who  has  the  dollar  now. 

Tragedian.     [Rising  and  shaking  his  fist.]     I'll  get  him  yet. 

[He  takes  his  side  of  the  trunk. 

Villain.  [To  Tragedian.]  First  put  one  of  my  bundles  on 
your  back. 


338  DAVID    PINSKI 

Tragedian.     [In  rage.]     One  of  your  bundles  on  my  back  ? 

Villain.  Oh,  for  all  I  care  you  can  put  it  on  your  head,  or 
between  your  teeth. 

"Old  JVIan."     We  will  put  the  bundle  on  the  trunk. 

Comedian.  [Sitting  up.]  Look  here,  are  you  joking  or  are 
you  in  earnest.'^ 

Villain.     [Contemptuoushj.]     I  never  joke. 

Comedian.     Then  you  are  in  earnest  ? 

Villain.     I'll  make  no  explanations. 

Comedian.  Do  you  really  think  that  because  you  have  the 
dollar 

Villain.  The  holy  dollar,  the  almighty  dollar,  the  king  of 
kings. 

Comedian.  [Continuing.]  That  therefore  you  are  the  mas- 
ter  

Villain.     Bread-giver  and  provider. 

Comedian.     And  that  we  must 

Villain.     Do  what  I  bid  you  to. 

Comedian.     So  you  are  in  earnest  ? 

Villain.  You  must  get  up,  take  the  baggage  and  follow 
me. 

Comedian.     [Rising.]    Then  I  declare  a  revolution. 

Villain.     What  .'*     A  revolution  ! 

Comedian.     A  bloody  one,  if  need  be. 

Tragedl\n.  [Dropping  his  end  of  the  trunk  and  advancing 
with  a  bellicose  attitude  toward  the  Villain.]  And  I  shall  be  the 
first  to  let  3'our  blood,  you  scoundrel. 

Villain.  If  that's  the  case  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you. 
Those  who  wish,  come  along. 

Comedian.  [Getting  in  his  way.]  No,  you  shall  not  go  until 
you  give  up  the  dollar. 

Villain.     Ha-ha.     It  is  to  laugh ! 

Comedian.     The  dollar,  please,  or ' 

Villain.     He-he-he ! 

Comedian.     Then  let  there  be  blood.       [Turns  up  his  sleeves. 


A    DOLLAR  339 

Tragedian.     [Taking  off  his  coat.]    Ah !    Blood,  blood ! 

"Old  Man."  [Dropping  his  end  of  the  trunk.]  I'm  not  going 
to  keep  out  of  a  fight. 

Women.     [Dropping  his  satchels.]     Nor  we.     Nor  we. 

Villain.  [Shouting.]  To  whom  shall  I  give  up  the  dollar? 
You — you — you — you  ? 

Comedian.  This  argument  will  not  work  any  more.  You 
are  to  give  the  dollar  up  to  all  of  us.  At  the  first  opportunity 
we'll  get  change  and  divide  it  into  equal  parts. 

Women.     Hurrah,  hurrah  !     Divide  it,  divide  it ! 

Comedian.  [To  Villain.]  And  I  will  even  be  so  good  as  to 
give  you  a  share. 

Tragedian.     I'd  rather  give  him  a  sound  thrashing. 

Comedian.     It  shall  be  as  I  say.     Give  up  the  dollar. 

Heroine.  [Throwing  herself  on  the  Comedian's  breast.]  My 
comedian  !     My  comedian  ! 

Ingenue.  [To  the  Villain.]  I'm  sick  of  you.  Give  up  the 
dollar. 

Comedian.  [Pushing  the  Heroine  aside.]  You  better  step 
aside  or  else  you  may  get  the  punch  I  aim  at  the  master  and 
bread-giver.     [To  the  Villain.]     Come  up  with  the  dollar ! 

Tragedian.     Give  up  the  dollar  to  him,  do  you  hear  ? 

All.     The  dollar,  the  dollar ! 

Villain.     I'll  tear  it  to  pieces. 

Comedian.  Then  we  shall  tear  out  what  little  hair  you  have 
left  on  your  head.     The  dollar,  quick  ! 

[They  surround  the  Villain;  the  women  pull  his  hair;  the 
Tragedian  grabs  him  by  the  collar  and  shakes  him;  the 
"Old  Man"  strikes  him  on  his  bald  pate ;  the  Comedian 
struggles  with  him  and  finally  grasps  the  dollar. 

Comedian.     [Holding  up  the  dollar.]     I  have  it ! 
[The  women  dance  and  sing. 

Villain.     Bandits !    Thieves ! 

Tragedian.     Silence,  or  I'll  shut  your  mouth. 

[Goes  back  to  the  trunk  and  assumes  his  heroic  pose. 


S40  DAVID    PINSKI 

Comedian.  [Putting  the  dollar  into  hi*  pocket.]  That's  what 
I  call  a  successful  and  a  bloodless  revolution,  except  for  a  little 
fright  and  heart  palpitation  on  the  part  of  the  late  master  and 
bread-giver.  Listen,  some  one  is  coming.  Perhaps  he'll  be  able 
to  change  the  dollar  and  then  we  can  divide  it  at  once. 

"Old  Man."  I  am  puzzled  how  we  can  change  it  into  equal 
parts. 

[Starts  to    calculate    with    the    Ingenue    and   the    "Old 
Woman." 
Heroine.     [Tenderly  attentive  to  the   Comedian.]     You   are 
angry  with  me,  but  I  was  only  playing  with  him  so  as  to  wheedle 
the  dollar  out  of  him. 

Comedian.  And  now  you  want  to  trick  me  out  of  my  share 
of  it. 

"Old  Man."  It  is  impossible  to  divide  it  into  equal  parts. 
It  is  absolutely  impossible.     If  it  were  ninety-eight  cents  or  one 

hundred  and  five  cents  or 

[The  Stranger  enters  from  the  right,  perceives  the  com- 
pany, greets  it,  and  continues  his  way  to  left.     Comedian 
stops  him. 
Comedian.     I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  perhaps  you  have  change 
of  a  dollar  in  dimes,  nickels,  and  pennies. 

[Showing  the  dollar.     The  "Old  Man"  and  women  step 
forward. 
Stranger.     [Getting  slightly  nervous,  starts  somewhat,  makes  a 
quick  movement  for  his  pistol-pocket,  looks  at  the  Comedian  and 
the  others  and  says  sloicly.]     Change  of  a  dollar.^     [Moving  from 
the  circle  to  left.]     I  believe  I  have. 
Women.     Hurrah ! 

Stranger.  [Turns  so  that  no  one  is  behind  him  and  pulls  his 
revolver.]     Hands  up ! 

Comedian.  [In  a  gentle  tone  of  voice.]  My  dear  sir,  we  are 
altogether  peaceful  folk. 

Stranger.     [Takes  the  dollar  from  the  Comedian's  hand  and 


A    DOLLAR  341 

walks  backwards  to  left  with  the  pistol  pointed  at  the  group.]     Good- 
night, everybody. 

[He  disappears,  the  actors  remain  dumb  with  fear,  with 
their  hands  up,  mouths  wide  open,  and  staring  into  space. 
Comedian.     [Finally  breaks  out  into  thunderous  laughter.]     Ha- 
ha-ha-ha-ha-ha ! 

CURTAIN 


THE  DIABOLICAL  CIRCLE 

BY 

BEULAH  BORNSTEAD 


The  Diabolical  Circle  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Professor 
Franz  Rickaby,  in  whose  course  in  dramatic  composition  (English  36) 
in  the  University  of  North  Dakota  this  play  was  written.  For  permis- 
sion to  perform,  address  Professor  Franz  Rickaby,  University  of  North 
Dakota,  University,  North  Dakota. 


BEULAH  BORNSTEAD 

Beulah  Bornstead,  one  of  the  promising  young  playwrights  of 
the  Northwest,  was  born  in  Grand  Forks,  North  Dakota,  May  5, 
1896.  She  has  had  her  academic  training  at  the  University  of 
North  Dakota,  from  which  she  received  her  B.A.  in  1921.  At 
present  Miss  Bornstead  is  principal  of  the  Cavalier  High  School, 
North  Dakota.  Before  attempting  drama  she  tried  her  hand 
at  journalism  and  at  short-story  writing. 

Miss  Bornstead  was  introduced  into  playwriting  by  Professor 
Franz  Rickaby,  in  whose  course  in  dramatic  composition  at  the 
University  of  North  Dakota  The  Diabolical  Circle  was  written. 
In  speaking  of  this  play  Miss  Bornstead  writes:  '^  The  Diaboli- 
cal Circle  is  the  first  play  I  have  ever  written.  I  never  enjoyed 
doing  anything  so  much  in  my  life.  The  characters  were  so  real 
to  me  that  if  I  had  bumped  into  one  going  round  the  corner  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised  in  the  least.  Betty  and 
Charles  and  Adonijah  and  even  Cotton  Mather  himself 
worked  that  play  out.  All  the  humble  author  did  was  to  set  it 
down  on  paper."  The  Diabolical  Circle  was  produced  May  5, 
1921,  by  the  Dakota  Play  makers  in  their  Little  Theatre  at  the 
University  of  North  Dakota. 

The  Diabolical  Circle  is  one  of  the  best  contemporary  plays 
dealing  with  American  historical  material.  Its  characterization 
is  one  of  its  noteworthy  elements. 


CHARACTERS 

Cotton  Mather 

Betty,  his  daughter 

Adonijah  Wigglesworth,  a  suitor,  and  Cotton's  choice 

Charles  Manning,  likewise  a  suitor,  but  Betty's  choice 

The  Clock 


THE  DIABOLICAL  CIRCLE 

SCENE :  The  living-room  in  the  Mather  home  in  Boston. 
TIME:  About  1700,  an  evening  in  early  autumn. 

The  stage  represents  the  living-room  of  the  Mather  home.  A  large 
colonial  fireplace  is  seen  down-stage  left,  within  which  stand 
huge  brass  andirons.  To  one  side  hangs  the  bellows,  with  the 
tongs  near  by,  while  above,  underneath  the  mantelpiece,  is  sus- 
pended an  old  flint-lock  rifle.  On  both  ends  of  the  mantel  are 
brass  candlesticks,  and  hanging  directly  above  is  an  old-fash- 
ioned portrait  of  Betty's  mother.  There  are  two  doors,  one 
leading  into  the  hall  at  centre  left,  the  other,  communicating 
with  the  rest  of  the  hou^e,  up-stage  right.  A  straight  high- 
backed  settee  is  down-stage  right,  while  in  the  centre  back 
towers  an  old  grandfather's  clock.  To  the  left  of  the  clock  is 
the  window,  cross-barred  and  draped  with  flowered  chintz.  An 
old-fashioned  table  occupies  the  corner  between  the  window 
and  the  hall  door.  Here  and  there  are  various  straight-backed 
chairs  of  Dutch  origin.     Rag  rugs  cover  the  floor. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Cotton  Mather  is  seated  in  a  large  armchair 
by  the  fire,  with  Betty  on  a  stool  at  his  feet,  with  her  knitting. 

CoTTOJNT,  his  hair  already  touched  with  the  whitening  frost  of  many 
a  severe  New  England  winter,  is  grave  and  sedate.  Very  much 
exercised  ivith  the  perils  of  this  life,  and  serenely  contemplative 
of  the  life  to  come,  he  takes  himself  and  the  world  about  him 
very  seriously. 

Not  so  with  Mistress  Betty.     Outwardly  demure,  yet  inwardly 

*  Plans  for  this  clock  may  be  had  by  addressing  Professor  N.  B.  Knapp, 
of  the  Manual  Training  Department,  University  of  North  Dakota, 
University,  North  Dakota. 

Copyright,  1922,  by  the  Dakota  Playmakers. 

347 


348  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

rebellious   against   the   straitened   conventions    of  the   times, 
she  dimples  over  with  roguish  merriment  upon  the  slightest 
provocation. 
As  we  first  see  them  Cotton  is  giving  Bettt  som£  timely  advice. 

Cotton.  But  you  must  understand  that  marriage,  my 
daughter,  is  a  most  reverend  and  serious  matter  which  should 
be  approached  in  a  manner  fittingly  considerate  of  its  grave 
responsibility. 

Betty.  [Thoughtfully.]  Truly  reverend  and  most  serious, 
father  [looking  up  roguishly],  but  I  like  not  so  much  of  the  grave 
about  it. 

Cotton.  [Continuing.]  I  fear  thou  lookest  upon  the  matter 
too  lightly.  It  is  not  seemly  to  treat  such  a  momentous  occa- 
sion thus  flippanth^ 

Betty.  [Protesting.]  Nay,  father,  why  consider  it  at  all.? 
Marriage  is  yet  a  great  way  off.  Mayhap  I  shall  never  leave 
thee. 

Cotton.  Thou  little  thinkest  that  I  may  be  suddenly  called 
on  to  leave  thee.  The  Good  AVord  cautions  us  to  boast  not  our- 
selves of  the  morrow,  for  we  know  not  what  a  day  may  bring 
forth. 

Betty.  [Dropping  her  knitting.]  Father,  thou  art  not  feeling 
well.     Perhaps 

Cotton.  Nay,  child,  be  not  alarmed.  'Tis  but  a  most  nec- 
essary lesson  to  be  learned  and  laid  up  in  the  heart.  I  will  not 
always  be  with  thee  and  I  would  like  to  be  comfortably  assured 
of  thy  future  welfare  before  I  go. 

Betty.  [Picking  her  knitting  up.]  Be  comfortably  assured, 
then,  I  prithee;  I  have  no  fears. 

Cotton.  [Bringing  his  arm  doion  forcibly  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair.]  Aj^e !  There  it  is.  Thou  hast  no  fears.  Would  that 
thou  had'st  some !  [Looks  up  at  the  portrait.]  Had  thy  prudent 
and  virtuous  mother  only  lived  to  point  the  way,  I  might  be 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  349 

spared  this  anxiety;  but,  beset  by  diverse  difficulties  in  estab- 
lishing the  kingdom  of  God  in  this  country,  and  sorely  harassed 
by  many  hardships  and  by  evil  men,  I  fear  me  I  have  not  pro- 
pounded to  thee  much  that  I  ought. 

Betty.  In  what  then  is  mine  education  lacking?  Have  I 
not  all  that  is  fitting  and  proper  for  a  maiden  to  know  ? 

Cotton.  [Perplexed.]  I  know  not.  I  have  done  my  best, 
but  thou  hast  not  the  proper  attitude  of  mind  befitting  a  maiden 
about  to  enter  the  married  estate. 

Betty.  [Protesting.]  Nay,  but  I  am  not  about  to  enter  the 
married  estate. 

Cotton.     It  is  time. 

Betty.  [Mockingly  pleading.]  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee, 
father,  nor  forsake  thee;  for  whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and 
whither 

Cotton.  [Interrupting  sternly.]  Betty !  It  ill  befitteth  a 
daughter  of  mine  to  quote  the  Scriptures  with  such  seeming  ir- 
reverence.— ^I  would  not  be  parted  from  thee,  yet  I  would  that 
thou  wert  promised  to  some  godly  and  upright  soul  that  would 
guide  thee  yet  more  surely  in  the  paths  of  righteousness.  There 
be  many  such. 

Betty.     Yea,  too  many. 

Cotton.     What  meanest  thou  ? 

Betty.     One  were  one  too  many  when  I  would  have  none. 

Cotton.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Ah,  Betty,  Betty  !  When  wilt 
thou  be  serious?  There  is  a  goodly  youth  among  the  friends 
surrounding  thee  whom  I  have  often  marked,  both  on  account 
of  his  godly  demeanor  and  simple  wisdom. 

Betty.     [Nodding.]     Yea,  simple. 

Cotton.  I  speak  of  Adonijah  Wigglesworth,  a  most  estima- 
ble young  gentleman,  an  acquaintance  whom  thou  would'st  do 
well  to  cultivate. 

Betty.     Yea,  cultivate. 

Cotton.     What  thinkest  thou  ? 


350  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

Betty.  A  sod  too  dense  for  any  ploughshare.  My  wit  would 
break  in  the  turning. 

Cotton.  His  is  a  strong  nature,  born  to  drive  and  not  be 
driven.  There  is  not  such  another,  nay,  not  in  the  whole  of 
Boston. 

Betty.     Nay,  I  have  lately  heard  there  be  many  such ! 

Cotton.     [Testily.]     Mayhap  thou  couldst  name  a  few. 

Betty.  [Musingly,  holds  up  her  left  hand  with  fingers  out- 
spread.] Aye,  that  I  can.  [Checks  off  one  on  the  little  finger.] 
There  be  Marcus  Ainslee 

Cotton.     A  goodly  youth  that  hath  an  eye  for  books. 

Betty.  One  eye,  sayest  thou.?  Nay,  four;  and  since  I  am 
neither  morocco  bound  nor  edged  with  gilt,  let  us  consign  him 
to  the  shelf  wherein  he  findeth  fullest  compensation. 

Cotton.  How  now  ?  A  man  of  action,  then,  should  appeal 
to  thy  brash  tastes.  What  sayest  thou  to  Jeremiah  Wads- 
worth  ? 

Betty.  Too  brash  and  rash  for  me  [checking  off  that  candi- 
date on  the  next  finger],  and  I'll  have  none  of  him.  There's  Percy 
Wayne. 

Cotton.     Of  the  bluest  blood  in  Boston. 

Betty.  Yet  that  be  not  everything  [checks  off  another  finger] 
— and  Jonas  Appleby 

Cotton.     He  hath  an  eye  to  worldly  goods 


Betty.  [Quickly.]  Especially  the  larder.  To  marry  him 
would  be  an  everlasting  round  between  the  tankard  and  the 
kettle.  [Checks  him  off.]  Nay,  let  me  look  yet  farther — James 
Endicott.     [Checking.] 

Cotton.  Aye,  there  might  be  a  lad  for  thee;  birth,  breeding, 
a  well-favored  countenance,  and  most  agreeable. 

Betty.  Yea,  most  agreeable — unto  himself.  'Twere  a  pity 
to  disturb  such  unanimity.  Therefore,  let  us  pass  on.  Take 
Charles  Manning,  an  you  please 

Cotton.     It  pleaseth  me  not !     I  know  the  ilk;  his  father  be- 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  351 

fore  him  a  devoted  servant  of  the  devil  and  King  Charles.  With 
others  of  his  kind  he  hath  brought  dissension  among  the  young 
men  of  Harvard,  many  of  whom  are  dedicated  to  the  service  of 
the  Lord,  with  his  wicked  apparel  and  ungodly  fashion  of  wear- 
ing long  hair  after  the  manner  of  Russians  and  barbarous  In- 
dians. Many  there  be  with  him  brought  up  in  such  pride  as 
doth  in  no  ways  become  the  service  of  the  Lord.  The  devil 
himself  hath  laid  hold  on  our  young  men,  so  that  they  do  evap- 
orate senseless,  useless,  noisy  impertinency  wherever  they  may 
be;  and  now  it  has  e'en  got  out  in  the  pulpits  of  the  land,  to  the 
great  grief  and  fear  of  many  godly  hearts. 

[He  starts  to  his  feet  and  paces  the  floor. 

Betty.     [Standing  upright.]     But  Charles 

Cotton.  [Interrupting.]  Mention  not  that  scapegrace  in  my 
hearing. 

Betty.     [Still  persisting.]     But,  father,  truly  thou  knowest 

not 

Cotton.  [Almost  savagely,  while  Betty  retreats  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance.] Name  him  not.  I  will  not  have  it.  Compared  with 
Adonijah  he  is  a  reed  shaken  in  the  winds,  whereas  Adonijah 
resemble th  a  tree  planted  by  the  river  of  waters. 

Betty.  [Who  has  been  looking  out  of  the  window.]  Converse 
of  the  devil  and  thou  wilt  behold  his  horns.  Even  now  he  ap- 
proacheth  the  knocker. 

[The  knocker  sounds. 
Cotton.     [Sternly.]     Betake  thyself  to  thine  own  chamber 
with  thine  unseemly  tongue,  which  so  ill  befitteth  a  maid. 

[Betty  is  very  demure,  with  head  slightly  bent  and  downcast 
eyes  ;  but  the  moment  Cotton  turns  she  glances  roguishly 
after  his  retreating  form ;  then  while  her  glance  revolves 
about  the  room,  she  starts  slightly  as  her  gaze  falls  upon 
the  clock.  A  smile  of  mischievous  delight  flits  over  her 
countenance  as  she  tiptoes  in  Cotton's  ivake  until  the 
clock  is  reached.     Cotton,  unsuspecting,  meanichile  pro- 


352  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

ceeds  to  do  his  duty  as  host,  ivith  never  a  backward  glance. 
While  he  is  out  in  the  hall  Betty,  with  a  lingering  smils 
of  triumph,  climbs  into  the  clock  and  cautiously  peeks 
forth  as  her  father  opens  the  door  and  ushers  in  Adoni- 
JAH,  whereupon  the  door  softly  closes. 
Adonijah.  Good-morrow,  reverend  sir. 
Cotton.     Enter,  and  doubly  welcome. 

Adonijah.  I  would  inquire  whether  thy  daughter  Betty  is 
within. 

Cotton.  We  were  but  speaking  of  thee  as  thy  knock  sounded. 
Betty  will  be  here  presently;  she  hath  but  retired  for  the  mo- 
ment.    Remove  thy  wraps  and  make  thyself  in  comfort. 

[Adonijah  is  a  lean,  lank,  lantern-jawed  individual,  clad  in 
the  conventional  sober  gray  of  the  Puritan,  with  high- 
crowned  hat,  and  a  fur  tippet  wound  about  his  neck  up 
to  his  ears.  He  removes  the  hat  and  tippet  and  hands 
them  to  Cotton,  who  carefully  places  them  upon  the 
table  ;  meanwhile  Adonijah  looks  appraisinghj  about  him 
and  judiciously  selects  the  armchair  by  the  fire.  He 
pauses  a  moment  to  rub  his  hands  before  the  blaze,  and 
then  gingerly  relaxes  into  the  depths  of  the  armchair,  as 
though  fearful  his  comfort  would  give  way  ere  fully  at- 
tained. Cotton  places  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of 
Adonijah  and  is  seated. 
Cotton.  And  how  is  it  with  thee  since  I  have  seen  thee 
last.? 

Adonijah.  My  business  prospereth  [mournfully],  but  not  so 
finely  as  it  might  well  do. 

[The  clock  strikes  four,  but  is  unnoticed  by  the  two  men. 

Cotton.     Thou  hast  suffered  some  great  loss  ? 

Adonijah.     But  yes — and  no — this  matter  of  lending  money 

hath  many  and  grievous  complications,  not  the  least  of  which  is 

the  duplicity  of  the  borrower.     I  but  insist  on  the  thirty  pounds 

to  the  hundred  as  my  due  recompense,  and  when  I  demand  it 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  355 

they  respond  not,  but  let  my  kindness  lie  under  the  clods  of 
ingratitude.  [Straightening  up,  and  speaking  with  conviction.] 
They  shall  come  before  the  council.  I  will  have  what  is  mine 
own. 

Cotton.  [Righteottsly.]  And  it  is  not  unbecoming  of  thee 
to  demand  it.  I  wist  not  what  the  present  generation  is  coming 
to. 

Adonijah.  They  have  no  sense  of  the  value  of  money. 
They  know  not  how  to  demean  themselves  properly  in  due  pro- 
portion to  their  worldly  goods,  as  the  Lord  hath  prospered  them. 
There  be  many  that  have  nothing  and  do  hold  their  heads  above 
us  that  be  worthy  of  our  possessions. 

Cotton.  The  wicked  stand  in  slippery  places.  It  will  not 
always  be  thus.     Judgment  shall  come  upon  them. 

Adonijah.  Aye,  let  them  fall.  I  for  one  have  upheld  them 
too  far.  They  squander  their  means  in  riotous  living,  and  walk 
not  in  the  ways  of  their  fathers. 

Cotton.  There  be  many  such — many  such — but  thou,  my 
lad,  thou  art  not  one  of  the  multitude.  As  I  have  often  ob- 
served to  my  Betty,  thou  standest  out  as  a  most  upright  and 
God-fearing  young  man. 

Adonijah.  [Brimming  over  with  self-satisfaction.]  That  have 
I  ever  sought  to  be. 

Cotton.     An  example  that  others  would  do  well  to  imitate. 

Adonijah.  [All  puffed  up.]  Nay,  others  value  it  not.  They 
be  envious  of  my  good  fortune. 

Cotton.  A  most  prudent  young  man  !  Nay,  be  not  so  over- 
blushingly  timid.     Thou'rt  too  modest. 

Adonijah.  [His  face  falling.]  But  Betty — doth  she  regard 
me  thus  ? 

Cotton.  The  ways  of  a  maid  are  past  finding  out;  but  de- 
spair not.  I  think  she  hath  thee  much  to  heart,  but,  as  the 
perverse  heart  of  woman  dictateth,  behaveth  much  to  the 
contrary. 


354  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

Adonijah.     [Brightening    up  as  one  with  new  hopes.]     Thou 

thinkest 

Cotton.  [Interrupting.]  Nay,  lad,  I  am  sure  of  it.  Betty 
was  ever  a  dutiful  daughter. 

[All  unseen,  Betty  peeks  out  mischievously. 
Adonijah.     But  I  mistrust  me  her  heart  is  elsewhere. 
Cotton.     Thou  referr'st  to  young  Manning  without  doubt. 
It  can  never  be.     'Tis  but  a  passing  fancy. 

Adonijah.     Nay,  but  I  fear  Charles  thinketh  not  so.     I  have 
been  told  in  secret  [leaning  forward  confidentially]  by  one  that 
hath  every  opportunity  to  know,  that  he  hath  enjoined  Good- 
man Shrewsbury  to  send  for — [impressively]  a  ring ! 
Cotton.     [Angered.]     A  ring,  sayest  thou  ^ 
Adonijah.     [Nodding.]     Aye,  even  so. 

Cotton.     But  he  hath  not  signified  such  intention  here  to  me. 
Adonijah.     Then  there  are  no  grounds  for  his  rash  presump- 
tion ? 

Cotton.  Humph  !  Grounds  !  For  a  ring  !  Aye,  there'll  be 
no  diabolical  circle  here  for  the  devil  to  daunce  in.  I  will  ques- 
tion Betty  thereon.  [Rises.]  Do  thou  remain  here  and  I  will 
send  her  to  thee.  Oh,  that  he  should  offer  daughter  of  mine  a 
ring ! 

[Cotton  leaves  the  room.  Adonijah  leans  hack  in  his 
chair  in  supreme  contentment  at  the  turn  affairs  have 
taken.  The  clamorous  knocker  arouses  him  from  his 
reverie.  He  gazes  stupidly  around.  The  continued  im- 
perious tattoo  on  the  knocker  finally  brings  him  to  his  feet. 
He  goes  into  the  hall  and  opens  the  door.  His  voice  is 
heard. 
Adonijah.  [Frostily.]  Good-afternoon,  Sir  Charles,  mine 
host  is  absent. 

Charles.  [Stepping  in.]  My  mission  has  rather  to  do  with 
Mistress  Betty.     Is  she  in  ? 

Adonijah.     [Closing  the  hall  door,  and  turning  to  Charles, 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  355 

replies  in  grandiose  haiUeur.]     Mistress  Betty  is  otherwise  en- 
gaged, I  would  have  thee  know. 

Chaeles.     Engaged?     [Bovxing.]     Your   humble    servant,    I 
trust,  hath  the  supreme  pleasure  of  that  engagement. 

[He  glances  inquiringly  aboiU  the  room,  and  places  the  hat 
on  the  table  beside  that  of  Adonijah.     The  tivo  hats  are 
as  different  as  the  two  men :  Adonijah 's  prim.  Puritanic, 
severe ;  Charles's  three-cornered,  with  a  flowing  plume. 
[Charles  is  a  handsome  chap  of  goodly  proportions,  with 
a  straightforward  air  and  a  pleasant  smile.     He  is  dressed 
more  after  the  fashion  of  the  cavaliers  of  Virginia,  and 
wears  a  long  wig  with  flowing  curls.     The  two  men  size 
each  other  up. 
Adonijah.     [Meaningly.]     Her  father  will  shortly  arrive. 
Charles.     [Impatiently  striding  forth.]     Devil  take  her  father. 
'Tis  Mistress  Betty  I  would  see.     Where  is  she  ? 

[Charles  continues  pacing  the  floor.  Adonijah,  shocked 
beyond  measure,  turns  his  back  on  the  offending  Charles, 
and  with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head  stands  aside  in  pro- 
found meditation.  The  clock  door  slowly  opens  and 
Betty  cautiously  peeks  out.  Charles  stops  short  and 
is  about  to  begin  a  decided  demonstration,  when  Betty, 
toith  a  warning  glance  toward  Adonijah,  checks  him  with 
upraised  hand.  The  clock  door  closes  and  Charles  sub- 
sides into  the  armchair  with  a  comprehending  grin  of 
delight.  Adonijah  slowly  turns  and  faces  Charles 
irnth  a  melancholy  air. 
Charles.     Prithee,  why  so  sad  ? 

[The  grin  becomes  a  chuckle. 
Adonijah.     I  do  discern  no  cause  for  such  unrighteous  merri- 
ment. 

Charles.  'Tis  none  the  less  for  all  of  that.  I  take  life  as  I 
find  it,  and  for  that  matter  so  do  they  all,  even  thou.  The  dif- 
ference be  in  the  finding.  [Whistles. 


t^5Q  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

Adonijah.     [Uneasily.]     It  is  time  her  father  did  arrive. 
Charles.     Where  then  hath  he  been  ? 
Adonijah.     He  but  went  in  search  of  Betty. 
Charles.     Ah,  then  we'll  wait. 

[He  whistles,  while  Adonijah  moves  uneasily  about  the 
room,  glancing  every  now  and  then  at  this  disturbing  ele- 
ment of  his  peace,  a^  if  he  would  send  him  to  kingdom 
come,  if  he  only  could. 
Adonijah.     [After  considerable  toleration.]     Waiting  may  avail 
thee  naught. 

Charles.     And  thee.?     Nevertheless  we'll  wait.        [Whistles. 
Adonijah.     [Takes  another  turn  or  tivo  and  fetches  up  a  coun- 
terfeit sigh.]     Methinks,  her  father's  quest  be  fruitless. 
Charles.     [Starting  up.]     Ah,  then,  let  us  go. 

[Adonijah,  visibly  relieved,  sits  down  in  the  chair  opposite, 

Charles.     [Amused.]    Nay.?     [Sits  down  and  relaxes.]    Ah, 

then,  we'll  wait.  [Whistles. 

Adonijah.     [Troubled.]     'Tis  certain  Mistress  Betty  be  not 

here. 

Charles.  Nay,  if  she  be  not  here,  then  I  am  neither  here 
nor  there.  I  would  wager  ten  pounds  to  a  farthing  she  be  ro^ 
vealed  in  time  if  she  but  will  it.     Wilt  take  me  up  ? 

Adonijah.  It  be  not  seemly  so  to  stake  thy  fortune  on  4 
woman's  whim. 

Charles.  [LaugJis.]  Thou'rt  right  on  it.  If  she  will,  say  I, 
for  if  she  will  she  won't,  and  if  she  won't  she  will. 

Adonijah.  False  jargon  !  A  woman  has  no  will  but  e'en  her 
father's  as  a  maid,  her  husband's  later  still. 

[Enter  Cotton,  who  stops  short  on  seeing  Charles,  rallies 
quickly,  and  proceeds. 
Cotton.     [Stifl^^^]     Good-day  to  you,  sir. 
Charles.     [Bowing  ;  he  has  riseji.]     And  to  you,  sire. 
Cotton.     [To  Adonijah.]     I  am  deeply  grieved   to  report 
that  Mistress  Betty  is  not  to  be  found. 

[Adonijah  steals  a  sly  look  of  triumph  at  Charles. 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  357 

Charlbs.  [In  mock  solemnity.]  I  prithee  present  my  deep 
>egrets  to  Mistress  Betty.     I  will  call  again. 

Cotton.  God  speed  thee !  [And  as  Charles  takes  his  leave 
Cotton  places  his  hand  affectionately  upon  Adonijah's  shoulder, 
saying  reassuringly.]  Come  again,  my  son;  Betty  may  not  be 
afar  off.  I  fain  would  have  her  soon  persuaded  of  thy  worth. 
Improve  thy  time. 

Adonijah.     [Beaming.]     Good  morrow,  sir;  I  will. 

[As  the  door  closes  behind  them  Cotton  slowly  walks  toward 
the  fire,  where  he  stands  in  complete  revery.     Still  ab- 
sorbed in  thought  he  walks  sloivly  out  the  door  at  the  right. 
Betty  peeks  cautiously  out,  but  hearing  footsteps  quickly 
withdraivs.     Cotton  re-enters  with  hat  on.     He  is  talk- 
ing to  himself,  reflectively. 
Cotton.     Where  can  she  be  ?     Mayhap  at  Neighbor  Ainslee's. 
[He  goes  hurriedly  out  through  the  hall  door.     The  banging 
of  the  outside  door  is  heard.     The  clock  door  once  more 
slowly  opens  and  Betty  peers  forth,  listening.     The  sound 
of  a  door  opening  causes  her  to  draw  back.     As  the  noise 
is  further  emphasized  by  approaching  footsteps,  she  pulls 
the  clock  door  quickly  to.     Charles  enters.     He  looks 
inquiringly  about,  tosses  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  goes 
for   the  clock.      He  opens  it  with  a  gay  laugh.     Betty 
steps  forth    out    of   the    clock,   very    much    assisted   by 
Charles. 
Charles.     Blessed   relief!     Thou   art   in   very   truth,   then, 
flesh  and  blood? 

Betty.     And  what  else  should  I  be,  forsooth  ? 
Charles.     [Laughing.]     I  marked  thee  for  a  mummy  there 
•fitombed. 

Betty.     [Disengaging  her  hand.]     What  ?     Darest  thou  ? 
Charles.     A  lively  mummy  now  thou  art  come  to,  whilst  I 
[sighs] — I  waited  through  the  ages  ! 

Betty.     [Laughingly.]   A  veritable  monument  of  patient  grief. 
Charles.     And  Adonijah 


358  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

Betty.  Yea,  verily,  old  Father  Time  but  come  to  life. 
[Mimics.]     Thy  waiting  may  avail  thee  naught. 

Charles.  In  truth,  it  may  avail  me  naught;  thy  father 
may  be  back  at  any  time,  while  I  have  much  to  say,  sweet 
Betty 

Betty.     [Interrupting.]    Nay,  sweet  Betty  call  me  not. 

Charles.     Dear  Betty,  then,  the  dearest 

Betty.  [Quickly.]  Yea,  call  me  dearest  mummy,  Hottentot, 
or  what  you  will,  just  so  it  be  not  sweet,  like  Adonijah.  It  sick- 
ens me  beyond  expressing. 

Charles.  Then,  sweet  Betty  thou  art  not,  say  rather  sour 
Betty,  cross  Betty,  mean  Betty,  bad  Betty,  mad  Betty,  sad 
Betty. 

Betty.     [Suddenly  dimpling.]    Nay,  glad  Betty ! 

Charles.  Art  then  so  glad .^^  Wilt  tell  me  why?  In  sooth, 
I  know  not  whither  to  be  glad,  or  sad,  or  mad.  Sometimes  I 
am  but  one,  sometimes  I  am  all  three. 

Betty.     Wilt  tell  me  why.? 

Charles.  [Stepping  closer  and  imprisoning  her  left  haTid.] 
Thou  wilt  not  now  escape  it,  for  I  will  tell  thee  why,  and 
mayhap  this  will  aid  me.  [Slips  ring,  ivhich  he  has  had  con- 
cealed in  his  pocket,  on  her  finger.]  Hath  this  no  meaning  for 
thee.? 

Betty.  [Her  eyes  sparkling  with  mischief.]  Aye,  'tis  a  dia- 
bolical circle  for  the  devil  to  daunce  in ! 

Charles.     [In  astonishment.]    A  what.'* 

Betty.  [Slowly.]  A  diabolical  circle  for  the  devil  to  daunce 
in — so  father  saith.     Likewise  Adonijah. 

Charles.  [Weakly  endeavoring  to  comprehend.]  A  diabolical 
circle — but  what ! — say  it  again,  Betty. 

Betty.  [Repeats  slowly,  emphasizing  it  with  pointed  finger.] 
A  diabolical  circle  for  the  devil  to  daunce  in. 

Charles.  [Throws  hack  his  head  and  laughs.]  May  I  be  the 
devil ! 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  359 

Betty.     [Shaking  her  finger  at  him.]     Then  daunce  ! 

[They  take  position,  as  though  for  a  minuet.     The  knocker 
sounds.     Betty  runs  to  the  window. 
Betty.     Aye,  there's  Adonijah  at  the  knocker.     Into  the 
clock — hie  thee — quick,  quick ! 

Charles.  [Reproachfully.]  And  would'st  thou  incarcerate 
me  through  the  ages?  [Turns  to  the  clock.]  O  timely  sar- 
cophagus ! 

[Charles  is  smuggled  into  the  clock,  and  Betty  has  barely 
enough  time  to  make  a  dash  for  the  hat  and  conceal  it  he- 
hind  her  before  the  door  opens  and  in  stalks  Adonijah. 
He  looks  about  suspiciously.     Betty  faces  him  with  the 
hat  held  behind  her.     He  removes  his  hat  and  tippet  and 
lays  them  on  the  table. 
ADO]^aJAH.     Methought  I  heard  a  sound  of  many  feet. 
Betty.     [Looking  down.]     Two  feet  have  I;  no  more,  no  less. 
Adonijapi.     [Dryly.]     Aye,  two  be  quite  sufficient. 
Betty.     An  thou  sayest  the  word,  they  yet  can  beat  as  loud 
a  retreat  as  an  whole  regiment. 

Adonijah.     Thou  dost  my  meaning  misconstrue. 
Betty.     Construe  it  then,  I  prithee. 

Adonijah.     I  came  not  here  to  vex 

Betty.  Then  get  thee  hence.  [He  steps  forward.  Betty 
steps  hack.]     But  not  behind  me,  Satan. 

Adonijah.     [Coming  closer.]     And  yet  thou  driv'st  me  to  it. 
Betty.     [Backing  off.]     Indeed,  thou  hast  a  nature  born  to 
drive  and  not  be  driven. 

Adonijah.  [Highly  complimented.]  So  be  it,  yet  I  scarce  had 
hoped  that  thou  would'st  notice.  [Advancing.]  Born  to  drive, 
thou  sayest,  not  be  driven. 

Betty.  [Retreating.]  Thou  hast  said  it,  born  to  drive.  But 
what  to  drive  I  have  not  said.  That  knowledge  hath  my  father 
yet  concealed. 

Adonijah.     [Eagerly.]     Thy  father,  then,  hath  told  thee 


360  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

Betty.  [Who  is  retreating  steadily  across  the  room.\  Thou 
wert  born  to  drive  ! 

[Strikes  settee  and  goes  down  on  the  hat.  Adoxijah  seats 
himself  beside  Betty.  Betty  is  of  necessity  forced  to 
remain — on  the  hat.  Adonijah  slides  arm  along  the 
hack  of  the  settee.  The  clock  door  strikes  erratically.  He 
jerks  his  arm  hack  and  gazes  in  the  direction  of  the  clock. 
The  clock  hands  wigwag.  ADOisnjAH  stares  abstractedly 
and  passes  his  hand  over  his  forehead  in  a  dazed  manner. 

Betty.     [Solicitously.]     What  aileth  thee.'* 

Adonijah.     [Still  staring.]     The  time  ! 

Betty.     [Stifles  a  yawn.]     It  doth  grow  late. 

Adonijah.     But  not  consistently;  it  changeth. 

Betty.     'Twas  ever  so  with  time. 

Adonijah.     [Reminiscently .]     Of  a  certainty  they  moved. 

Betty.     Yea,  verily,  'tis  not  uncommon. 

Adonijah.     But  backwards ! 

Betty.  [Joyfully.]  Why,  then,  my  prayers  are  answered. 
How  often  I  have  prayed  them  thus  to  move !  Yet  hath  it 
never  come  to  pass. 

Adonijah.     Nay,  had'st  thou  seen 

Betty.     Prithee  calm  thyself.     Thou'rt  ill. 

Adonijah.  [Steals  his  arm  along  the  back  of  the  settee  and 
moves  over  closer.]  Sweet  Betty !  [Betty  looks  away  with  a  wry 
face.]  Thy  indifference  in  no  wise  blinds  me  to  thy  conception 
of  my  true  value.  [Betty  sits  up,  round-eyed.]  There  was  a 
time  when  I  despaired —  [The  clock  again  strikes  wildly.  The 
hands  drop  and  rise  as  before.  Adonijah  excitedly  points  at  the 
clock.]     Again  !     Did'st  mark  it  ?     Something  doth  ail  the  clock  ! 

Betty.  Yea,  truly  thou  art  ill.  The  clock  behaveth  much 
more  to  the  point  than  thou. 

Adonijah.  [Tearing  his  gaze  from  the  clock.]  As  I  was  on 
the  point  of  saying — [glances  at  the  clock]  thy  father  hath  given — 
[another  glance]  me  to  understand — [with  eye  on  the  clock  he  hitches 
up  closer]  that  thou  art  not  averse  to  mine  affections 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  361 

[As  he  attempts  to  put  his  arm  around  Betty  the  clock 
strikes  a  tattoo  and  startles  him  excitedly  to  his  feet,  as 
the  hands  travel  all  the  way  round. 

Adonijah.     [Pointing.]     Now  look  !     Mark  the  time ! 
[Cotton  enters. 

Cotton.  Tarry  yet  awhile,  my  son,  the  time  doth  not  pre- 
vent thee. 

Adonijah.  Tarry.?  Time  doth  not  prevent.?  Little  know- 
est  thou  !  [Gazes  abstractedly  about.  Sights  the  ring  on  Betty's 
finger,  who  in  excitement  has  forgotten  to  keep  her  hands  behind 
her  back.]  Aye,  there  it  is,  the  diabolical  circle.  It  is  a 
charm.  It  harms  her  not,  while  all  about  me  is  askew. 
Whence  came  she  here.?  [Points  at  Betty.]  She  neither  came 
nor  went,  and  yet  she  was  not  there  and  now  she  is.  A  manly 
form  did  enter.  Yet  hath  vanished  into  thin  air.  Yea,  verily, 
it  was  none  other  than  the  devil  himself  in  one  of  his  divers 
forms,  of  which  he  hath  aplenty.  The  very  clock  indulgeth  in 
unseemly  pranks.  A  strange  influence  hangs  over  me.  I  can- 
not now  abide.  I  must  depart  from  hence.  My  conscience  bids 
me  go. 

Cotton.     [Striving  to  detain  him.]     Hold  !     Thou'rt  mad  ! 

Betty.     Nay,  father,  he  is  ill. 

Adonijah.  [Wildly.]  Aye,  if  I  be  mad,  thy  daughter  be  to 
blame.  The  spell  did  come  upon  me.  I  have  seen  strange 
things. 

Cotton.     What  meanest  thou  ? 

Adonijah.  [Pointing  at  Betty,  who  regards  him  wonderingly.] 
Thy  daughter  is  a  witch  ! 

Betty.     [Runs  to  Cotton.]     Oh,  father ! 

Cotton.  [Consoles  Betty;  thunders  at  Adonijah.]  What.? 
Darest  thou  to  being  forth  such  an  accusation  ? 

Adonijah.  Aye,  while  I  yet  have  strength  to  order  mine  own 
will.  We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see  when  the  fires  leap  round 
the  stake.  All  the  diabolical  circles  the  devil  may  invent  or  his 
helpmeets  acquire  will  be  of  small  avail  when  the  leaping  tongues 


362  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

of  flame  curl  round  you,  false  servant  of  the  devil,  I  can  delay 
no  longer.  I  will  repair  to  the  council  at  once,  and  report  what 
I  have  seen. 

[Betty /am^5  away.  Cotton  is  at  once  all  paternal  solici- 
tude. Adonijah  gazes  in  stupefaction.  All  unobserved 
Charles  slips  out  of  the  clock.  Finalhj  Adonijah,  as 
Betty  shows  signs  of  reviving,  turns  himself  away,  only 
to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  Charles.  Adonijah 
stops  dead  in  his  tracks,  absolutely  nonplussed. 
Charles.  Thou  goest  to  the  council.?  Thou  lackest  evi- 
dence.    Behold  the  devil  an'  thou  wilt. 

[Adonijah 's  jaw  drops.     He  stares  unbelievingly.     Cot- 
ton looks  up  in  surprise  as  Charles  continues. 
Charles.     An'  thou  goest  to  the  council  with  such  a  mes- 
sage, the  devil  will  dog  thy  very  footsteps.     And  match  word  of 
thine  with  word  of  truth  in  such  a  light  that  thine  own  words 
shall  imprison  thee  in  the  stocks  over  Sunda}'. 

[Adonijah  recovers  from  his  temporary  abstraction,  and  seiz- 
ing his  hat  and  tippet,  tears  out  the  door  as  if  a  whole 
legion  of  imps  were  in  fidl  pursuit.     Charles  contemp- 
tuously turns  on  his  heel  and  goes  over  to  Betty,  who  is 
noio  clinging  to  her  father  s  arm. 
Betty.     [Faintly.]     They  will  not  burn  me  for  a  witch  ? 
Charles.     [Savagely.]     Aye,  let  them  try  it  an  they  will. 
Cotton.     [Hotly.]     Aye — let  them !     [Then  starting  suddenly 
with  a  new  thought.]     But  how  cam'st  thou  here  ?     Yea,  verily,  it 
seemeth  to  me  thou  did'st  materialize  out  of  thin  air. 

[Surveys  Charles  with  piercing  scrutiny. 

Charles.     Nay,  see  through  me  an  thou  can'st.     Thou  wilt 

find  me  a  most  material  shadow,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  hath 

ever  pierced.     'Twas  not  out  of  the  air,  but  out  of  yonder  clock 

that  I  materialized. 

Betty.     Yea,  father,  I  put  him  there. 

Cotton.     [Going  to  the  clock  and  opening  it.]     Of  a  truth,  the 


THE    DIABOLICAL    CIRCLE  363 

evidence,  all  told,  is  here.  Thou  wert  of  a  certainty  in  the  clock. 
{Takes  out  the  detached  pendulum.  Steps  back  and  surveys  the 
timepiece,  whose  hands  clearly  indicate  a  time  long  passed  or  not 
yet  come.]  And  as  far  as  pendulums  are  concerned  [looking  rue- 
fully at  the  one  in  his  hand],  thou  certainly  wert  no  improve 

Charles.  Aye,  that  I'll  warrant.  And  may  I  never  more 
be  called  to  fulfil  such  position;  the  requirements  be  far  too  ex- 
acting for  one  of  my  build  and  constitution. 

Cotton.  But  what  extremity  hath  induced  thee  to  take  up 
thine  abode  in  such  a  place  ^ 

[Lays  the  pendulum  aside  and  gives  Charles  his  entire 
attention. 

Charles.  Why,  that  came  all  in  the  course  of  events  as  I 
take  it.  When  I  returned  a  short  time  ago,  hard  upon  mine 
heels  came  Adonijah;  and,  being  loath  either  to  leave  the  field 
or  share  it,  I  hid  within  the  clock.  Once  there,  the  temptation 
to  help  time  in  covering  its  course  grew  strong  upon  me  in  the 
hope  that  Adonijah,  misled  by  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  would 
soon  depart.  Only  I  looked  not  for  such  a  departure.  Judge 
me  not  too  harshly,  sire,  for  I  love  thy  daughter,  and  if  thou 
wilt  give  thy  consent  to  our  marriage  I  will  do  all  that  becometh 
a  man  to  deserve  such  treasure. 

Cotton.  I  like  not  thy  frivolous  manner  of  wearing  hair  that 
is  not  thine  own;  it  becomes  thee  not.  And  I  strongly  mistrust 
thine  attitude  toward  the  more  serious  things  of  life. 

Charles.  If  my  wig  standeth  between  me  and  my  heart's 
desire,  why,  I'll  have  no  wig  at  all.  [He  pulls  the  wig  off  and 
tosses  it  aside.  Betty,  with  a  little  cry,  picks  it  up  and  smooths 
its  disarranged  curls.]  And  as  for  mine  outlook  on  life,  I  prom- 
ise thee  that  hath  but  matched  the  outer  trappings,  and  can  be 
doflFed  as  quickly.  I  am  as  serious  beneath  all  outward  levity 
as  any  sober-minded  judge,  and  can  act  accordingly. 

Cotton.  See  to  it  that  thou  suit  the  action  to  those  words. 
My  heart  is  strangely  moved  toward  thee,  yet  I  would  ponder 


364  BEULAH    BORNSTEAD 

the  matter  more  deeply.  [Turns  to  Betty,  who  has  been  absent- 
mindedly  twirling  the  curls  on  the  wig.]  And  where  is  thy  voice, 
my  daughter?  Thou  art  strangely  silent — [as  an  afterthought] 
for  the  once.  But  it  is  of  small  wonder,  since  thou  hast  had 
enough  excitement  for  one  evening.  Me  thinks  that  scoundrel, 
Adonijah,  needetli  following  up.  Do  thou  remain  with  Betty, 
Charles,  and  I  will  hasten  after  him. 

Charles.  Nay,  thou  need'st  not  trouble  thyself  regarding 
Adonijah.  He  hath  much  too  wholesome  a  regard  for  the  duck- 
ing-stool to  cause  further  mischief. 

Cotton.  Nevertheless,  I  will  away  to  the  council  and  make 
sure.  [He  plants  his  hat  on  his  head  and  departs. 

Charles.  [Turning  to  Betty,  who  has  dropped  the  wig  on  the 
settee,  and  who  is  now  gazing  demurely  at  the  floor.]  And  now  to 
finish  up  where  we  left  off.  The  devil  hath  led  us  a  merrier 
dance  than  we  suspected.  Thou  hast  not  truly  given  answer  to 
the  question  I  have  asked  of  thee. 

Betty.     What  more  of  an  answer  would'st  thou  yet  require  ? 

Charles.     Why,  I  have  yet  had  none  at  all. 

Betty.     Must  tell  thee  further  ? 

Charles.     [Gravely.]     Thou  must. 

Betty.     [Mischievously.]     Then — put  the  question  once  again. 

Charles.     Thou  knowest  the  question,  an  thou  wilt. 

Betty.     An'  thou  knowest  the  answer. 

[Charles  takes  her  in  his  arms. 

Betty.  [Holding  up  her  hand  so  thai  the  ring  sparkles.]  Look, 
Charles — the  diabolical  circle  ! 

CURTAIN 


THE  FAR-AWAY  PRINCESS 

BY 

HERMANN  SUDERMANN 


The  Far- Away  Princess  is  reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  the  publishers  of  Roses,  from  which  this  play  is 
taken.     For  permission  to  perform  address  the  publishers. 


HERMANN  SUDERIVIANN 

Hermann  Sudermann,  one  of  the  foremost  of  the  Continental 
European  dramatists,  was  born  at  Matziken,  in  East  Prussia, 
Germany,  September  30,  1857.  He  attended  school  at  Elbing 
and  Tilsit,  and  then  at  fourteen  became  a  druggist's  apprentice. 
He  received  his  university  training  at  Konigsberg  and  Berlin. 
Soon  he  devoted  his  energies  to  literary  work. 

His  greatest  literary  work  is  in  the  field  of  the  drama,  in  which 
he  became  successful  almost  instantly.  His  strength  is  not  in 
poetic  beauty  and  in  deep  insight  into  human  character,  as  in 
the  instance  of  a  number  of  other  German  dramatists.  He  is 
essentially  a  man  of  the  theatre,  a  dramatist,  and  a  technician 
by  instinct.     He  is  a  dramatic  craftsman  of  the  first  order. 

His  chief  one-act  plays  are  in  two  volumes:  Morituri,  which 
contains  Teja,  Fritchen,  and  The  Eternal  Masculine;  and  Roses, 
which  contains  Streaks  of  Light,  Margot,  The  Last  Visit,  and  The 
Far- Away  Princess. 

The  Far-Away  Princess  is  one  of  the  most  subtle  and  most 
delicate  of  Sudermann 's  plays.     Its  technic  is  exemplary. 


CHARACTERS 

The  Princess  von  Geldern 
Baroness  von  Brook,  her  maid  of  honor 
Frau  von  Halldorf 

LiDDY 

her  daughters 


MiLLY 

Fritz  Strubel,  a  student 
Frau  Lindemann 
Rosa,  a  waitress 
A  Lackey 


THE  FAR-AWAY  PRINCESS* 

THE  PRESENT  DAY:  The  scene  is  laid  at  an  inn  situated 
above  a  watering-place  in  central  Germany. 

The  veranda  of  an  inn.  The  right  side  of  the  stage  and  half  of  the 
background  represent  a  framework  of  glass  enclosing  the  ve- 
randa. The  left  side  and  the  other  half  of  the  background  rep- 
resent the  stone  walls  of  the  hou^e.  To  the  left,  in  the  fore- 
ground, a  door;  another  door  in  the  background,  at  the  left. 
On  the  left,  back,  a  buffet  and  serving-table.  Neat  little  tables 
and  small  iron  chairs  for  visitors  are  placed  about  the  veranda. 
On  the  right,  in  the  centre,  a  large  telescope,  standing  on  a 
tripod,  is  directed  through  an  open  window.  Rosa,  dressed 
in  the  costume  of  the  country,  is  arranging  floivers  on  the  small 
tables.  Frau  Lindemann,  a  handsome,  stoutish  woman  in 
the  thirties,  hurries  in  excitedly  from  the  left. 

Frau  Lindemann.  There !  Now  she  can  come — curtains, 
bedding — everything  fresh  and  clean  as  new !  No,  this  honor, 
this  unexpected  honor — !  Barons  and  counts  have  been  here 
often  enough.  Even  the  Russian  princes  sometimes  come  up 
from  the  Springs.  I  don't  bother  my  head  about  them — they're 
just  like — that ! —     But  a  princess — a  real  princess  ! 

Rosa.     Perhaps  it  isn't  a  real  princess  after  all. 

Frau  Lindemann.  [Indignantly.]  What.^  What  do  you 
mean  by  that ! 

Rosa.  I  was  only  thinking  that  a  real  princess  wouldn't  be 
coming  to  an  inn  like  this.  Real  princesses  won't  lie  on  anything 
but  silks  and  velvets.     You  just  wait  and  see;  it's  a  trick  ! 

*  Copyright,  1909,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     All  rights  reserved. 


370  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

Frau  Lindemann.  Are  you  going  to  pretend  that  the  letter 
isn't  genuine;  that  the  lett^  is  a  forgery? 

Rosa.  Maybe  one  of  the  regular  customers  is  playing  a  joke. 
That  student,  Herr  Striibel,  he's  always  joking.  [Giggles. 

Frau  Lindemaitot.  When  Herr  Striibel  makes  a  joke  he 
makes  a  decent  joke,  a  real,  genuine  joke.  Oh,  of  course  one 
has  to  pretend  to  be  angry  sometimes — but  as  for  writing  a 
forged  letter —  My  land ! — a  letter  with  a  gold  crown  on  it — 
there!  [She  takes  a  letter  from  her  ivaist  and  reads.]  "This  after- 
noon Her  Highness,  the  Princess  von  Geldern,  will  stop  at  the 
Fairview  Inn,  to  rest  an  hour  or  so  before  making  the  descent  to 
the  Springs.  You  are  requested  to  have  ready  a  quiet  and  com- 
fortable room,  to  guard  Her  Highness  from  any  annoying  ad- 
vances, and,  above  all,  to  maintain  the  strictest  secrecy  regarding 
this  event,  as  otherwise  the  royal  visit  will  not  be  repeated. 
Baroness  von  Brook,  maid  of  honor  to  Her  Highness."  Now, 
what  have  you  got  to  say  ? 

Rosa.  Herr  Striibel  lent  me  a  book  once.  A  maid  of  honor 
came  into  that,  too.     I'm  sure  it's  a  trick ! 

Frau  Lindemann.  [Looking  out  toward  the  back.]  Dear, 
dear,  isn't  that  Herr  Striibel  now,  coming  up  the  hill  ?  To-day 
of  all  days  !     What  on  earth  does  he  always  want  up  here  ? 

Rosa.  [Pointedly.]  He's  in  such  favor  at  the  Inn.  He  won't 
be  leaving  here  all  day. 

Frau  Lindemann.  That  won't  do  at  all.  He's  got  to  be 
sent  off.  If  I  only  knew  how  I  could — Oh,  ho  !  I'll  be  disagree- 
able to  him — that's  the  only  way  to  manage  it ! 

[Strubel  enters.  He  is  a  handsome  young  fellow  without 
much  polishy  hut  cheerful,  unaffected,  entirely  at  his  ease, 
and  invariably  good-natured. 

Strubel.     Good  day,  everybody. 

Frau  Lindemann.     [Sarcastically.]     Charming  day. 

Strubel.  [Surprised  at  her  coolness.]  I  say !  What's  up  ? 
Who's  been  rubbing  you  the  wrong  way.'^     May  I  have  a  glass 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  371 

of  beer,  anyway  ?  Glass  of  beer,  if  you  please  !  Several  glasses 
of  beer,  if  you  please.  [Sits  down.]  Pestiferously  hot  this  after- 
noon. 

Frau  Lindemann.     [After  a  pause.]     H'm,  H'm. 

Strubel.     Landlady  Linda,  dear,  why  so  quiet  to-day  ? 

Frau  Lindemann.  In  the  first  place,  Herr  Strubel,  I  would 
have  you  know  that  my  name  is  Frau  Lindemann. 

Strubel.     Just  so. 

Frau  Lindemann.  And,  secondly,  if  you  don't  stop  your 
familiarity 

Strubel.  [Singing,  as  Rosa  brings  him  a  glass  of  beer.]  "Beer 
— beer  !" — Heavens  and  earth,  how  hot  it  is  !  [Drinks. 

Frau  Lindemann.  If  you  find  it  so  hot,  why  don't  you  stay 
quietly  down  there  at  the  Springs  ? 

Strubel.  Ah,  my  soul  thirsts  for  the  heights — my  soul 
thirsts  for  the  heights  every  afternoon.  Just  as  soon  as  ever 
my  sallow-faced  pupil  has  thrown  himself  down  on  the  couch  to 
give  his  red  corpuscles  a  chance  to  grow,  "I  gayly  grasp  my 
Alpine  staff  and  mount  to  my  beloved." 

Frau  Lindemann.     [Scornfully.]    Bah! 

Strubel.  Oh,  you're  thinking  that  you  are  my  beloved  .f* 
No,  dearest;  my  beloved  stays  down  there.  But  to  get  nearer 
to  her,  I  have  to  come  up  here — up  to  your  telescope.  With  the 
aid  of  your  telescope  I  can  look  right  into  her  window — see  ? 

Rosa.     [Laughing.]     Oh,  so  that's  why 

Frau  Lindemann.  Perhaps  you  think  I'm  interested  in  all 
that?  Besides,  I've  no  more  time  for  you.  Moreover,  I'm  go- 
ing to  have  this  place  cleaned  right  away.  Good-by,  Herr 
Strubel.  [Goes  out. 

Strubel.  [Laughing.]  I  certainly  caught  it  that  time  !  See 
here,  Rosa,  what's  got  into  her  head  ? 

Rosa.  [Mysteriously.]  Ahem,  there  are  crowned  heads  and 
other  heads — and — ahem — there  are  letters  vnth  crowns  and  let- 
ters without  crowns. 


372  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

Strubel.     Letters —  ?     Are  you ? 

Rosa.     There  are  maids  of  honor — and  other  maids  !    [Giggles. 

Strubel.  Permit  me.  [Tapping  her  forehead  lightly  with  his 
finger.]     Ow !     Ow ! 

Rosa.     What's  the  matter  ? 

Strubel.     Why,  your  head's  on  fire.     Blow !     Blow !     And 

while  you  are  getting  some  salve  for  my  burns,  I'll  just 

[Goes  to  the  telescope. 
[Enter  Frau  von  Halldorf,  Liddy,  and  Milly.     Frau 
VON   Halldorf   is   an   aristocratic   icoman,   somewhat 
supercilious  and  affected. 

Liddy.  Here's  the  telescope,  mother.  Now  you  can  see  for 
yourself. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     What  a  pity  that  it's  in  use  just  now. 

Strubel.  [Stepping  hack.]  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  ladies — I  have 
plenty  of  time.     I  can  wait. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [Condescendingly.]  Ah,  thanks  so  much. 
[She  goes  up  to  the  telescope,  ivhile  Strubel  returns  to  his  former 
place.]     Waitress !     Bring  us  three  glasses  of  milk. 

Liddy.  [As  Milly  languidly  drops  into  a  chair.]  Beyond  to 
the  right  is  the  road,  mother. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Oh,  I  have  found  the  road,  but  I  see 
no  carriage — neither  a  royal  carriage  nor  any  other  sort. 

Liddy.     Let  me  look. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     Please  do. 

Liddy.     It  has  disappeared  now. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  was  a  royal 
carriage  ? 

Liddy.  Oh,  one  has  an  instinct  for  that  sort  of  thing,  mother. 
It  comes  to  one  in  the  cradle. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [As  Milly  yawns  and  sighs  aloud.] 
Are  you  sleepy,  dear  ^ 

Milly.     No,  only  tired.     I'm  always  tired. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     Well,  that's  just  why  we  are  at  the 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  373 

Springs.     Do  as  the  princess  does :  take  the  waters  religiously. 

MiLLY.  The  princess  oughtn't  to  be  climbing  up  such  a  steep 
hill  either  on  a  hot  day  like  this. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [More  softly.]  Well,  you  know  why  we 
are  taking  all  this  trouble.  If,  by  good  luck,  we  should  happen 
to  meet  the  princess 

LiDDY.  [Who  has  been  looking  through  the  telescope.]  Oh, 
there  it  is  again  ! 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     [Eagerly.]     Where?     Where? 

[Takes  Liddy's  place, 

LiDDY.     It's  just  coming  around  the  turn  at  the  top. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Oh,  now  I  see  it !  Why,  there's  no  one 
inside ! 

LiDDY.     Well,  then  she's  coming  up  on  foot. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [To  Milly.]  See,  the  princess  is  com- 
ing up  on  foot,  too.     And  she  is  just  as  antemic  as  you  are. 

Milly.  If  I  were  going  to  marry  a  grand-duke,  and  if  I  could 
have  my  own  carriage  driven  along  beside  me,  I  wouldn't  com- 
plain of  having  to  walk  either. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     I  can't  see  a  thing  now. 

LiDDY.     You  have  to  turn  the  screw,  mother. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  I  have  been  turning  it  right  along,  but 
the  telescope  won't  move. 

LiDDY.     Let  me  try. 

Strubel.  [Who  has  been  throwing  little  loads  of  paper  at  Rosa 
during  the  preceding  conversation.]     What  are  they  up  to? 

LiDDY.  It  seems  to  me  that  you've  turned  the  screw  too  far, 
mother. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     W^ell,  what  shall  we  do  about  it  ? 

Strubel.  [Rising.]  Permit  me  to  come  to  your  aid,  ladies. 
I've  had  some  experience  with  these  old  screws. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.     Very  kind — indeed. 

[Strubel  busies  himself  with  the  instrument. 

LiDDY.     Listen,  mother.     If  the  carriage  has  almost  reached 


374  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

the  top  the  princess  can't  be  far  off.     Wouldn't  it  be  best,  then, 
to  watch  for  them  on  the  road  ? 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Certainly,  if  you  think  that  would  be 
best,  dear  Liddy. 

Strubel.  This  is  not  only  an  old  screw,  but  it's  a  regular 
perverted  old  screw. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Ah,  really?  [Aside  to  her  daughters.] 
And  if  she  should  actually  speak  to  us  at  this  accidental  meeting 
— and  if  we  could  present  ourselves  as  the  subjects  of  her  noble 
fiance,  and  tell  her  that  we  live  at  her  future  home — just  imagine 
what  an  advantage  that  would  give  us  over  the  other  women  of 
the  court ! 

Strubel.  There,  ladies !  We  have  now  rescued  the  useful 
instrument  to  which  the  far-sightedness  of  mankind  is  indebted. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  Thanks,  so  much.  Pardon  me,  sir,  but 
have  you  heard  anything  about  the  report  that  the  princess  is 
going  to  make  the  journey  up  here  to-day.^ 

Strubel.  The  princess  ?  The  princess  of  the  Springs  ?  The 
princess  of  the  lonely  villa?  The  princess  who  is  expected  at 
the  iron  spring  every  morning,  but  who  has  never  been  seen  by 
a  living  soul  ?  Why,  I  am  enormously  interested.  You  wouldn't 
believe  how  much  interested  I  am  ! 

Liddy.  [Who  has  looked  out,  back.]  There — there — there — it 
is! 

Frau  v.  PIalldorf.     The  carriage  ?  - 

Liddy.  It's  reached  the  top  already.  It  is  stopping  over 
there  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  She  wUl  surely  enter  it  there,  then. 
Come  quickly,  my  dear  children,  so  that  it  will  lock  quite  acci- 
dental. Here  is  your  money.  [She  throws  a  coin  to  Rosa  a^id 
unwraps  a  small  package  done  up  in  tissue-paper ,  which  she  has 
brought  with  her.]  Here  is  a  bouquet  for  you — and  here's  one 
for  you.     You  are  to  present  these  to  the  princess. 

MiLLY.     So  that  it  will  look  quite  accidental — oh,  yes  ! 
[All  three  go  out. 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  375 

Strubel.  Good  heavens  !  Could  I —  ?  I  don't  believe  it ! 
Surely  she  sits — well,  I'll  make  sure  right  away —  [Goes  up  to 
the  telescope  and  stops.]     Oh,  I'll  go  along  with  them,  anyhow. 

[Exit  after  them. 
Frau  Lindemann.     [Entering.]     Have  they  all  gone — all  of 
them  ? 

Rosa.     All  of  them. 

Frau  Lindemann.  [Looking  toward  the  right.]  There — there 
— two  ladies  and  a  lackey  are  coming  up  the  footpath.  Mercy 
me !  How  my  heart  is  beating ! — If  I  had  only  had  the  sofa  re- 
covered last  spring  ! — What  am  I  going  to  say  to  them  ? — Rosa, 
don't  you  know  a  poem  by  heart  which  you  could  speak  to  the 
princess  ?  [Rosa  shrugs  her  shoulders.]  They're  coming  through 
the  court  now  ! — Stop  putting  your  arms  under  your  apron  that 

way,  you  stupid  thing  ! — oh  dear,  oh  dear 

[The  door  opens.     A  Lackey  in  plain  black  livery  enters, 
and  remains  standing  at  the  door.     He  precedes  The 
Princess  and  Frau  von  Brook.     The  Princess  is  a 
pale,  sickly,  unassuming  young  girl,  wearing  a  very  sim- 
ple walking  costume  and  a  medium-sized  leghorn  hat 
trimmed  with  roses.     Frau  von  Brook  is  a  handsome, 
stately,  stern-looking  woman,  in  the  thirties.     She  is  well- 
dressed,  but  in  accordance  with  the  simple  tastes  of  the 
North  German  nobility. 
Frau  v.  Brook.     Who  is  the  proprietor  of  this  place  ? 
Frau  Lindemann.     At  your  command,  your  Highness. 
Frau  v.  Brook.     [Reprovingly.]     I  am  the  maid  of  honor. 
Where  is  the  room  that  has  been  ordered  ? 

Frau  Lindemann.  [Opens  the  door,  left.]  Here — at  the  head 
of  the  stairs — my  lady. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Would  your  Highness  care  to  remain  here 
for  a  few  moments  ? 

The  Princess.     Very  much,  dear  Frau  von  Brook. 
Frau  v.  Brook.     Edward,   order   what   is   needed   for   Her 
Highness,  and  see  that  a  room  next  to  Her  Highness  is  prepared 


376  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

for  me.     I  may  assume  that  these  are  Your  Highness's  wishes? 

The  Princess.     Why  certainly,  dear  Frau  von  Brook. 

[The  Lackey,  icho  is  carrying  shaiols  and  pilloics,  goes  out 
with  Rosa,  left. 

The  Princess.  Mais  puisque  je  te  dis,  Eugenie,  que  je  n'ai 
pas  sommeil.  M'envoyer  coucher  comme  une  enfant,  c'est 
abominable. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Mais  je  t'implore,  cherie,  sois  sage !  Tu 
sais,  que  c'est  le  medecin,  qui 

The  Princess.  Ah,  ton  medecin !  Toujours  cette  corvee. 
Et  si  je  te  dis 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Chut!  My  dear  woman,  wouldn't  it  be 
best  for  you  to  superintend  the  preparations  "^ 

Frau  Lindemann.     I  am  entirely  at  your  service. 

[Ahoid  to  go  out,  left. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  One  thing  more.  This  veranda,  leading 
from  the  house  to  the  grounds — would  it  be  possible  to  close  it 
to  the  public  .'* 

Frau  Lindemann.  Oh,  certainly.  The  guests  as  often  as 
not  sit  out  under  the  trees. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Very  well,  then  do  so,  please.  [Frau  Lin- 
demann locks  the  door.]  We  may  be  assured  that  no  one  will 
enter  this  place  ? 

Frau  Lindemann.  If  it  is  desired,  none  of  us  belonging  to 
the  house  will  come  in  here  either. 

Frau  v.  Brook.     We  should  like  that. 

Frau  Lindemann.     Very  well.  [Exit. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Really,  you  must  be  more  careful,  darling. 
If  that  woman  had  understood  French —     You  must  be  careful ! 

The  Princess.     What  would  have  been  so  dreadful  about  it  ? 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Oh,  my  dear  child !  This  mood  of  yours, 
which  is  due  to  nothing  but  your  illness — that  reminds  me,  you 
haven't  taken  your  peptonized  milk  yet — this  is  a  secret  which 
we  must  keep  from  every  one,  above  all  from  your  fiance.  If 
the  Grand  Duke  should  discover 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  377 

The  Princess.     [Shrugging  her  shoulders.]     Well,  what  of  it  ? 

Frau  v.  Brook.  A  bride's  duty  is  to  be  a  happy  bride. 
Otherwise 

The  Princess.     Otherwise.^ 

Frau  v.  Brook.     She  will  be  a  lonely  and  an  unloved  woman. 

The  Princess.     [With  a  little  smile  of  resignation.]     Ah ! 

Frau  v.  Brook.  What  is  it,  dear?  [The  Princess  shakes 
her  head.]  And  then  think  of  the  strain  of  those  formal  presen- 
tations awaiting  you  in  the  autumn !  You  must  grow  strong. 
Remember  that  you  must  be  equal  to  the  most  exacting  de- 
mands of  life. 

The  Princess.     Of  life  ?    "V^Tiose  life  ? 

Frau  v.  Brook.     W^hat  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

The  Princess.     Ah,  what  good  does  it  do  to  talk  about  it.^ 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Yes,  you  are  right.  In  my  soul,  too,  there 
are  unhappy  and  unholy  thoughts  that  I  would  rather  not  utter. 
From  my  own  experience  I  know  that  it  is  best  to  keep  strictly 
within  the  narrow  path  of  duty. 

The  Princess.     And  to  go  to  sleep. 

Frau  v.  Brook.     Ah,  it  isn't  only  that. 

The  Princess.  Look  out  there !  See  the  woods !  Ah,  to 
lie  down  on  the  moss,  to  cover  oneself  with  leaves,  to  watch  the 
clouds  pass  by  high  above 

Frau  v.  Brook.  [Softening.]  We  can  do  that,  too,  some- 
time. 

The  Princess.     [Laughing aloud.]     Sometime! 
[The  Lackey  appears  at  the  door. 

Frau  v.  Brook.     Is  everything  ready  ? 
[The  Lackey  bows. 

The  Princess.  [Aside  to  Frau  v.  Brook.]  But  I  simply 
cannot  sleep. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Try  to,  for  my  sake.  [Aloud.]  Does  Your 
Highness  command 

The  Princess.     [Smiling   and  sighing.]     Yes,   I   command. 
[They  go  out,  left. 


378  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

[The  stage  remains  empty  for  several  moments.  Then 
Strubel  is  heard  trying  the  latch  of  the  hack  door. 
Strubel's  Voice.  Hullo !  What's  up !  Why  is  this  locked 
all  of  a  sudden  ?  Rosa  !  Open  up  !  I've  got  to  look  tlirough 
the  telescope  !  Rosa  !  Won't  you  ?  Oh,  well,  I  know  how  to 
help  myself.  [He  is  seen  walking  outside  of  the  glass-covered 
teranda.  Then  he  puts  his  head  through  the  open  tcindow  at  the 
right.]  Not  a  soul  inside?  [Climbs  over.]  Well,  here  we  are. 
What  on  earth  has  happened  to  these  people?  [Unlocks  the 
hack  door  and  looks  out.]  Everything  deserted.  Well,  it's  all  the 
same  to  me.  [Locks  the  door  again.]  But  let's  find  out  right 
away  what  the  carriage  has  to  do  with  the  case. 

[Prepares  to  look  through  the  telescope.     The  Princess  en- 
ters cautiously  through  the  door  at  the  left,  her  hat  in  her 
hand.     Without  noticing  Strubel,  icho  is  standing  mo- 
tionless hefore  the  telescope,  she  goes  hurriedly  to  the  door 
at  the  hack  and  unlocks  it. 
Strubel.     [Startled  at  the  sound  of  the  key,  turns  around.] 
Why,  how  do  you  do?     [The  Princess,  not  venturing  to  movey 
glances  hack  at  the  door  through  which  she  has  entered.]     AVouldn't 
you  like  to  look  through  the  telescope  a  while?     Please  do. 
[The  Princess,  undecided  as  to  whether  or  not  she  should  answer 
him,  takes  a  few  steps  hack  toward  the  door  at  the  left.]     Why  are 
you  going  away  ?     I  won't  do  anything  to  you. 

The  Princess.     [Reassured.]     Oh,  I'm  not  going  away. 
Strubel.     That's  right.     But — where  have  you  come  from? 
The  door  was  locked.     Surely  you  didn't  climb  through  the  win- 
dow as  I  did  ? 

The  Princess.     [Frightened.]     What?     You  came — through 

the  window  ? 

Strubel.     Of  course  I  did. 

The  Princess.     [Frightened  anew.]     Then  I  had  rather 

[Ahoid  to  go  hack. 
Strubel.     Oh,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  just  stay  right  here. 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  379 

Why,  before  I'd  drive  you  away  I'd  pitch  myself  headlong  over 
a  precipice ! 

The  Princess.  [Smiling,  reassured.]  I  only  wanted  to  go 
out  into  the  woods  for  half  an  hour. 

Strubel.     Oh,  then  you're  a  regular  guest  here  at  the  Inn  ? 

The  Princess.     [Quickly.]     Yes — yes,  of  course. 

Strubel.     iVnd  of  course  you  drink  the  waters  down  below.'* 

The  Princess.  [In  a  friendly  way.]  Oh,  yes,  I  drink  the 
waters.     And  I'm  taking  the  baths,  too. 

Strubel.  Two  hundred  metres  up  and  down  every  time ! 
Isn't  that  very  hard  on  you  ?  Heavens  !  And  you  look  so  pale  ! 
See  here,  my  dear  young  lady,  don't  you  do  it.  It  would  be 
better  for  you  to  go  down  there — that  is —  Oh,  forgive  me ! 
I've  been  talking  without  thinking.  Of  course,  you  have  your 
own  reasons —  It's  decidedly  cheaper  up  here.  /  know  how  to 
value  a  thing  of  that  sort.  I've  never  had  any  money  in  all  my 
life! 

The  Princess.  [Trying  to  seem  practical.]  But  when  one 
comes  to  a  watering-place,  one  must  have  money. 

Strubel.  [Slapping  himself  on  the  chest.]  Do  I  look  to  you 
as  if  I  drank  iron  ?  Thank  Heaven,  I  can't  afford  such  luxuries  ! 
No;  I'm  only  a  poor  fellow  who  earns  his  miserable  pittance  dur- 
ing vacation  by  acting  as  a  private  tutor — that's  to  say,  "miser- 
able" is  only  a  figure  of  speech,  for  in  the  morning  I  lie  abed 
until  nine,  at  noon  I  eat  five  and  at  night  seven  courses;  and  as 
for  work,  I  really  haven't  a  thing  to  do !  My  pupil  is  so  anaemic 
— why,  compared  to  him,  you're  fit  for  a  circus  rider ! 

The  Princess.  [Laughing  unrestrainedly.]  Oh,  well,  I'm 
rather  glad  I'm  not  one. 

Strubel.     Dear  me,  it's  a  business  like  any  other. 

The  Princess.     Like  any  other  ?     Really,  I  didn't  think  that. 

Strubel.     And  pray,  what  did  you  think  then  ? 

The  Princess.  Oh,  I  thought  that  they  were — an  entirely 
different  sort  of  people. 


380  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

Strubel.  My  dear  young  lady,  all  people  are  "an  entirely 
different  sort."  Of  course  we  two  aren't.  We  get  along  real 
well  together,  don't  we  ?     As  poor  as  church  mice,  both  of  us  ! 

The  Princess.  [Smiling  reflectively.]  Who  knows?  Per- 
haps that's  true. 

Strubel.  [Kindly.]  Do  you  know  what?  If  you  want  to 
stay  down  there — I'll  tell  you  how  one  can  live  cheaply.  I  have 
a  friend,  a  student  like  myself.  He's  here  to  mend  up  as  you 
are.  I  feed  him  up  at  the  house  where  I'm  staying.  [Frightened 
at  a  peculiar  look  of  The  Princess's.]  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  be — 
No,  I  shouldn't  have  said  it.  It  wasn't  decent  of  me.  Only,  let 
me  tell  you,  I'm  so  glad  to  be  able  to  help  the  poor  fellow  out  of 
my  unexpected  earnings,  that  I'd  like  to  be  shouting  it  from  the 
housetops  all  the  time !  Of  course,  you  understand  that,  don't 
you? 

The  Princess.     You  like  to  help  people,  then  ? 

Strubel.     Surel^^ — don't  you  ? 

The  Princess.  [Reflecting.]  No.  There's  always  so  much 
talk  about  it,  and  the  whole  thing  immediately  appears  in  the 
newspapers. 

Strubel.     What  ?     If  you  help  some  one,  that  appears ? 

The  Princess.  [Quickly  correcting  herself.]  I  only  mean  if 
one  takes  part  in  entertainments  for  charity 

Strubel.  Oh,  yes,  naturally.  In  those  things  they  always 
get  some  woman  of  rank  to  act  as  patroness,  if  they  can,  and  she 
sees  to  it,  you  may  be  sure,  that  the  newspapers  make  a  fuss 
over  it. 

The  Princess.     [Demurely.]     Oh,  not  every 

Strubel.  Just  try  to  teach  me  something  I  don't  know  about 
these  titled  women !  Besides,  my  dear  young  lady,  where  is 
your  home — in  one  of  the  krge  cities,  or ? 

The  Princess.  Oh,  no.  In  quite  a  small  town — really  more 
like  the  country. 

Strubel.  Then  I'm  going  to  show  you  something  that  you 
probably  never  saw  before  in  all  your  life. 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  381 

The  Princess.     Oh  do  !     What  is  it  ? 

Strubel.  a  princess  !  H'ln — not  a  make-believe,  but  a  real, 
true-blue  princess ! 

The  Princess.     Oh,  really  ? 

Strubel.     Yes.     Our  Princess  of  the  Springs. 

The  Princess.     And  who  may  that  be  ? 

Strubel.     Why,  Princess  Marie  Louise. 

The  Princess.     Of  Geldern  ? 

Strubel.     Of  course. 

The  Princess.     Do  you  know  her  ? 

Strubel.     Why,  certainly. 

The  Princess.  Really?  I  thought  that  she  lived  in  great 
retirement. 

Strubel.  Well,  that  doesn't  do  her  any  good.  Not  a  bit  of 
it.  And  because  you  are  such  a  jolly  good  fellow  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  my  secret.     I'm  in  love  with  this  princess ! 

The  Princess.    Oh! 

Strubel.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  comfort  it  is.  The  fact 
is,  every  young  poet  has  got  to  have  a  princess  to  love. 

The  Princess.     Are  you  a  poet  ^ 

Strubel.     Can't  you  tell  that  by  looking  at  me  ? 

The  Princess.     I  never  saw  a  poet  before. 

Strubel.  Never  saw  a  poet — never  saw  a  princess !  Why, 
you're  learning  a  heap  of  things  to-day ! 

The  Princess.  [Assenting.]  H'm — and  have  you  written 
poems  to  her  ? 

Strubel.  Why,  that  goes  without  saying !  Quantities  of 
'em! 

The  Princess.  Oh,  please  recite  some  little  thing — won't 
you.? 

Strubel.     No,  not  yet.     Everything  at  the  proper  time. 

The  Princess.     Ah,  yes,  first  I  should  like  to  see  the  princess. 

Strubel.     No,  first  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story. 

The  Princess.     Oh,  yes,  yes.     Please  do.  [Sits  down. 

Strubel.     Well,  then — I  had  hardly  heard  that  she  was  here 


382  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

before  I  was  dead  in  love  with  her.  It  was  just  as  quick  as  a 
shot,  I  tell  you.  Just  as  if  I  had  waited  all  m}^  life  long  to  fall 
in  love  with  her.  Besides,  I  also  heard  about  her  beauty — and 
her  sorrow.     You  see,  she  had  an  early  love  affair. 

The  Princess.  [Disconcerted.]  What?  Are  they  saying 
that? 

Strubel.  Yes.  It  was  a  young  officer  who  went  to  Africa 
because  of  her — and  died  there. 

The  Princess.     And  they  know  that,  too  ? 

Strubel.  What  don't  they  know  ?  But  that's  a  mere  detail 
— it  doesn't  concern  me.  Even  the  fact  that  in  six  months  she 
will  become  the  bride  of  a  grand-duke — even  that  can  make  no 
difference  to  me.  For  the  present  she  is  my  princess.  But  you're 
not  listening  to  me  ! 

The  Princess.     Oh,  yes,  I  am ! 

Strubel.  Do  you  know  what  that  means — my  princess  !  I'll 
not  give  up  my  princess — not  for  anything  in  all  the  world ! 

The  Princess.     But — if  you  don't  even  know  her ? 

Strubel.  I  don't  know  her  ?  Why,  I  know  her  as  well  as  I 
know  myself ! 

The  Princess.     Have  you  ever  met  her,  then  ? 

Strubel.  I  don't  know  of  any  one  who  has  ever  met  her. 
And  there's  not  a  soul  that  can  tell  what  she  looks  like.  It  is 
said  that  there  were  pictures  of  her  in  the  shop-windows  when 
she  first  came,  but  they  were  removed  immediately.  In  the 
morning  a  great  many  people  are  always  lurking  around  the 
Springs  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her.  I,  myself,  have  gotten 
up  at  six  o'clock  a  couple  of  times — on  the  same  errand — and  if 
you  knew  me  better,  you'd  realize  what  that  meant.  But  not  a 
sign  of  her !  Either  she  has  the  stuff  brought  to  her  house  or 
she  has  the  power  of  making  herself  invisible.  [The  Princess 
turns  aside  to  conceal  a  smile.]  After  that,  I  used  to  hang  around 
her  garden — every  day,  for  hours  at  a  time.  Until  one  day  the 
policeman,  whom  the  managers  of  the  Springs  have  stationed  at 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  383 

the  gates,  came  up  to  me  and  asked  me  what  on  earth  I  was 
doing  there.  Well,  that  was  the  end  of  those  methods  of  ap- 
proach !  Suddenly,  however,  a  happy  thought  struck  me.  Now 
I  can  see  her  and  have  her  near  to  me  as  often  as  I  wish. 

The  Princess.     Why,  that's  very  interesting.     How  ? 

Strubel.  Yes,  that's  just  the  point.  H'm,  should  I  risk  it  ? 
Should  I  take  you  into  my  confidence  ? 

The  Princess.  You  promised  me  some  time  ago  that  you 
would  show  her  to  me. 

Strubel.  Wait  a  second.  [Looks  through  the  telescope.] 
There  she  is.     Please  look  for  yourself. 

The  Princess.  But  I  am —  [She,  too,  looks  through  the  tel- 
escope.] Actually,  there  is  the  garden  as  plain  as  if  one  were 
in  it. 

Strubel.  And  at  the  corner  window  on  the  left — with  the 
embroidery-frame — that's  she. 

The  Princess.  Are  you  absolutely  certain  that  that  is  the 
princess  ? 

Strubel.     Why,  who  else  could  it  be  ? 

The  Princess.  Oh,  'round  about  a  princess  like  that — there 
are  such  a  lot  of  people.  For  instance,  there  is  her  waiting- 
woman,  there's  the  seamstress  and  her  assistants,  there's 

Strubel.  But,  my  dear  young  lady,  if  you  only  understood 
anything  about  these  matters,  you  would  have  been  certain  at 
the  very  first  glance  that  it  was  she — and  no  one  else.  Observe 
the  nobility  in  every  motion — the  queenly  grace  with  which  she 
bends  over  the  embroidery-frame 

The  Princess.  How  do  you  know  that  it's  an  embroidery- 
frame  ? 

Strubel.  Why,  what  should  a  princess  be  bending  over  if 
not  an  embroidery-frame.^  Do  you  expect  her  to  be  darning 
stockings  ? 

The  Princess.     It  wouldn't  hurt  her  at  all ! 

Strubel.     Now,  that's  just  one  of  those  petty,  bourgeois  no- 


384  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

tions  which  we  ought  to  suppress.  It's  not  enough  that  we 
have  to  stick  in  this  misery,  but  we'd  Hke  to  drag  her  down,  too 
— that  being  far  above  all  earthly  care 

The  Princess.     Oh,  dear  me  ! 

Strubel.     What  are  you  sighing  about  so  terribly  ? 

The  Princess.  Tell  me,  wouldn't  yon  like  to  have  a  closer 
acquaintance  with  your  princess,  some  time  ? 

Strubel.  Closer  ?  Why  should  I }  Isn't  she  close  enough 
to  me,  my  far-away  princess  ? — for  that's  what  I  call  her  when  I 
talk  to  myself  about  her.     And  to  have  her  still  closer  ? 

The  Princess.  Why,  so  that  you  could  talk  to  her  and 
know  what  she  really  was  like  ? 

Strubel.  [Terrified.]  Talk  to  her!  Heaven  forbid !  Good- 
ness gracious,  no !  Just  see  here — how  am  I  to  face  a  princess  ? 
I'm  an  ordinary  fellow,  the  son  of  poor  folks.  I  haven't  polished 
manners — I  haven't  even  a  decent  tailor.  A  lady  like  that — 
why,  she'd  measure  me  from  top  to  toe  in  one  glance.  I've  had 
my  lessons  in  the  fine  houses  where  I've  applied  as  tutor.  A 
glance  from  boots  to  cravat — and  you're  dismissed  ! 

The  Princess.  And  you  think  that  I — [correcting  herself] 
that  this  girl  is  as  superficial  as  that  ? 

Strubel.  "This  girl"!  Dear  me,  how  that  sounds !  But, 
how  should  I  ever  succeed  in  showing  her  my  real  self  .^^  And 
even  if  I  should,  what  would  she  care  ?  Oh,  yes,  if  she  were  like 
you — so  nice  and  simple — and  with  such  a  kindhearted,  roguish 
little  twinkle  in  her  eye ! 

The  Princess.     Roguish — I  ?    Why  so  ? 

Strubel.  Because  you  are  laughing  at  me  in  your  sleeve. 
And  really  I  deserve  nothing  better. 

The  Princess.  But  your  princess  deserves  something  bet- 
ter than  your  opinion  of  her. 

Strubel.     How  do  you  know  that  ? 

The  Princess.  You  really  ought  to  try  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  her  some  time. 

Strubel.     No,  no,  no — and  again  no !     As  long  as  she  re- 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  385 

mains  my  far-away  princess  she  is  everything  that  I  want  her 
to  be — modest,  gracious,  loving.  She  smiles  upon  me  dreamUy. 
Yes,  she  even  listens  when  I  recite  my  poems  to  her — and  that 
can't  be  said  of  many  people !  And  as  soon  as  I  have  finished 
she  sighs,  takes  a  rose  from  her  breast,  and  casts  it  down  to  the 
poet.  I  wrote  a  few  verses  yesterday  about  that  rose,  that 
flower  which  represents  the  pinnacle  of  my  desires,  as  it  were. 

The  Princess.     [Eagerly.]     Oh,  yes.     Oh,  please,  please ! 

Strubel.     Well,  then,  here  goes.     H'm 

"Twenty  roses  nestling  close " 

The  Princess.     What  ?     Are  there  twenty  now  ? 
Strubel.     [Severely.]     My   princess   would   not  have   inter- 
rupted me. 

The  Princess.     Oh,  please — forgive  me. 
Strubel.     I  shall  begin  again. 

"Twenty  roses  nestling  close 
Gleam  upon  thy  breast. 
Twenty  years  of  rose-red  love 
Upon  thy  fair  cheeks  rest. 

"Twenty  years  would  I  gladly  give 
Out  of  life's  brief  reign. 
Could  I  but  ask  a  rose  of  thee 
And  ask  it  not  in  vain. 

"Twenty  roses  thou  dost  not  need — 
Why,  pearls  and  rubies  are  thine ! 
With  nineteen  thou'dst  be  just  as  fair. 
And  one  would  then  be  mine ! 

"And  twenty  years  of  rose- wreathed  joy 
Would  spring  to  life  for  me — 
Yet  twenty  years  could  ne'er  suffice 
To  worship  it — and  thee  !" 


386  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

The  Princess.  How  nice  that  is!  I've  never  had  any 
verses  written  to  me  b 

Strubel.  Ah,  my  dear  young  lady,  ordinary  folks  like  us 
have  to  do  their  own  verse-making  ! 

The  Princess.  And  all  for  one  rose !  Dear  me,  how  soon  it 
fades  !     And  then  what  is  left  you  .'* 

Strubel.  No,  my  dear  friend,  a  rose  like  that  never  fades — 
even  as  my  love  for  the  gracious  giver  can  never  die. 

The  Princess.     But  you  haven't  even  got  it  yet ! 

Strubel.  That  makes  no  difference  in  the  end.  I'm  entirely 
independent  of  such  externals.  When  some  day  I  shall  be  ex- 
plaining Ovid  to  the  beginners,  or  perhaps  even  reading  Horace 
with  the  more  advanced  classes — no,  it's  better  for  the  present 
not  to  think  of  reaching  any  such  dizzy  heights  of  greatness — 
well,  then  I  shall  always  be  saying  to  myself  with  a  smile  of  sat- 
isfaction: "You,  too,  were  one  of  those  confounded  artist  fellows 
— why,  you  once  went  so  far  as  to  love  a  princess !" 

The  Princess.     And  that  will  make  you  happy .? 

Strubel.  Enormously!  For  what  makes  us  happy,  after 
all.'*  A  bit  of  happiness.'*  Great  heavens,  no!  Happiness 
wears  out  like  an  old  glove. 

The  Princess.     Well,  then,  what  does  ? 

Strubel.  Ah,  how  should  I  know !  Any  kind  of  a  dream — 
a  fancy — a  wish  unfulfilled — a  sorrow  that  we  coddle — some 
nothing  which  suddenly  becomes  everything  to  us.  I  shall  al- 
ways say  to  my  pupils:  "Young  men,  if  you  want  to  be  happy 
as  long  as  you  live,  create  gods  for  yourselves  in  your  own  image; 
these  gods  will  take  care  of  your  happiness." 

The  Princess.  And  what  would  the  god  be  like  that  you 
would  create  ? 

STRtJBEL.  Would  be  ?  Is,  my  dear  young  lady,  is  I  A  man 
of  the  world,  a  gentleman,  well-bred,  smiling,  enjoying  life — who 
looks  out  upon  mankind  from  under  bushy  eyebrows,  who  knows 
Nietzsche  and  Stendhal  by  heart,  and — [pointing  to  his  shoes]  who 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  387 

isn't  down  at  the  heels — a  god,  in  short,  worthy  of  my  princess. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  all  my  life  long  I  shall  never  do  any- 
thing but  crawl  around  on  the  ground  like  an  industrious  ant, 
but  I  know,  too,  that  the  god  of  my  fancy  will  always  take  me 
by  the  collar  when  the  proper  moment  comes  and  pull  me  up 
again  into  the  clouds.  Yes,  up  there  I'm  safe.  And  your  god, 
or  rather  your  goddess — what  would  she  look  like  ? 

The  Princess.  [Thoughtfully.]  That's  not  easy  to  say. 
My  goddess  would  be — a  quiet,  peaceful  woman  who  would  trea- 
sure a  secret  little  joy  like  the  apple  of  her  eye,  who  would  know 
nothing  of  the  world  except  what  she  wanted  to  know,  and  who 
would  have  the  strength  to  make  her  own  choice  when  it  pleased 
her. 

Strubel.  But  that  doesn't  seem  to  me  a  particularly  lofty 
aspiration,  my  dear  young  lady. 

The  Princess.     Lofty  as  the  heavens,  my  friend. 

Strubel.     My  princess  would  be  of  a  different  opinion. 

The  Princess.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Strubel.  For  that's  merely  the  ideal  of  every  little  country 
girl. 

The  Princess.  Not  her  ideal — her  daily  life  which  she 
counts  as  naught.     It  is  my  ideal  because  I  can  never  attain  it. 

Strubel.  Oh,  I  say,  my  dear  young  girl !  It  can't  be  as  bad 
as  that !  A  young  girl  like  you — so  charming  and — I  don't 
want  to  be  forward,  but  if  I  could  only  help  you  a  bit ! 

The  Princess.  Have  you  got  to  be  helping  all  the  time.'^ 
Before,  it  was  only  a  cheap  lunch,  now  it's  actually 

Strubel.     Yes,  yes,  I'm  an  awful  donkey,  I  know,  but 

The  Princess.  [Smiling.]  Don't  say  any  more  about  it, 
dear  friend  !     I  like  you  that  way. 

Strubel.  [Feeling  oppressed  by  her  superiority.]  Really,  you 
are  an  awfully  strange  person !  There's  something  about  you 
that — that 

The  Princess.     Well.? 


388  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

Strubel.  I  can't  exactly  define  it.  Tell  me,  weren't  you 
wanting  to  go  into  the  woods  before  ?  It's  so — so  oppressive  in 
here. 

The  Princess.  Oppressive  ?  I  don't  find  it  so  at  all — quite 
the  contrary. 

Strubel.  No,  no — I'm  restless.  I  don't  know  what — at  all 
events,  may  I  not  escort  you —  ?     One  can  chat  more  freely,  one 

can  express  himself  more  openly — if  one 

[Takes  a  deep  breath. 

The  Princess.  [Smiling.]  And  you  are  leaving  your  far- 
away princess  with  such  a  light  heart  ? 

Strubel.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,  she !  She  won't  run  away. 
She'll  be  sitting  there  to-morrow  again — and  the  day  after,  too ! 

The  Princess.     And  so  that  is  your  great,  imdying  love  ? 

Strubel.  Yes,  but  when  a  girl  like  you  comes  across  one's 
path 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [Hurrying  in  and  then  drawing  back  in 
feigned  astonishment.]     Oh ! 

LiDDY  AND  MiLLY.     [Similarly.]     Oh ! 

StrtJbel.  Well,  ladies,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  wouldn't 
find  her  ?     Princesses  don't  grow  along  the  roadside  like  weeds  ! 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [Disregarding  him — ceremoniously.]  The 
infinite  happiness  with  which  this  glorious  event  fills  our  hearts 
must  excuse  in  some  measure  the  extraordinary  breach  of  good 
manners  which  we  are  committing  in  daring  to  address  Your 
Highness.  But,  as  the  fortunate  subjects  of  Your  Highness's 
most  noble  fiance,  we  could  not  refrain  from 

Strubel.     Well,  well !     What's  all  this  ? 

Frau  v.  Halldorf. — from  offering  to  our  eagerly  awaited 
sovereign  a  slight  token  of  our  future  loyalty.  Liddy  !  Milly  ! 
[LiDDY  and  Milly  come  forward,  and,  with  low  court  bows,  offer 
their  bouquets.]  My  daughters  respectfully  present  these  few 
flowers  to  the  illustrious  princess 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  389 

Strubel.     I  beg  your  pardon,  but  who  is  doing  the  joking 

here,  you  or ? 

[Frau  v.  Brook  enters.     The  Princess,  tahen  unawares, 
has  retreated  more  and  more  helplessly  toward  the  door 
at  the  left,  undecided  whether  to  take  flight  or  remain. 
She  greets  the  arrival  of  Frau  v.  Brook  with  a  happy 
sigh  of  relief. 
Frau  v.  Brook.     [Severely.]    Pardon    me,    ladies.     Appar- 
ently you  have  not  taken  the  proper  steps  toward  being  pre- 
sented to  Her  Highness.     In  matters  of  this  sort  one  must  first 
apply  to  me.     I  may  be  addressed  every  morning  from  eleven 
to  twelve,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  consider  your  desires. 

Frau  v.  Halldorf.  [With  dignity.]  I  and  my  children,  ma- 
dame,  were  aware  of  the  fact  that  we  were  acting  contrary  to  the 
usual  procedure;  but  the  impulse  of  loyal  hearts  is  guided  by  no 
rule.  I  shall  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  your — very  kind  invita- 
tion. 

[All  three  go  out  with  low  curtsies  to  The  Princess. 
Frau  v.  Brook.     What  forwardness !     But  how  could  you 
come  down  without  me.''     And  what  is  that  young  man  over 
there  doing  .^     Does  he  belong  to  those  people  .^^ 

[The  Princess  shakes  her  head.     Strubel,   without  a 
word,  goes  to  get  his  hat,  which  has  been  lying  on  a  chair, 
bows  abruptly,  and  is  about  to  leave. 
The  Princess.     Oh,  no !    That  wouldn't  be  nice.     Not  that 

way 

Frau  v.  Brook.     [Amazed.]    What.^    What!    Why,    Your 

Highness ! 

The  Princess.  Let  me  be,  Eugenie.  This  young  man  and 
I  have  become  far  too  good  friends  to  part  in  such  an  unfriendly, 
yes,  almost  hostile  fashion. 

Frau  v.  Brook.     Your  Highness,  I  am  very  much 

The  Princess.     [To  Strubel.]    You  and  I  will  certainly  re- 


390  HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

member  this  hour  with  great  pleasure,  and  I  thank  you  for  it 
with  all  my  heart.  If  I  only  had  a  rose  with  me,  so  as  to 
give  you  your  dear  wish  !  Eugenie,  haven't  we  any  roses  with 
us? 

Fkau  v.  Brook.     Your  Highness,  I  am  very  much 

The  Princess.  [Examining  herself  and  searching  among  the 
vases.]     Well,  how  are  we  going  to  manage  it  ? 

Strubel.  I  most  humbly  thank — your  Highness — for  the 
kind  intention. 

The  Princess.  No,  no — wait !  [Her  glance  falls  upon  the 
hat  which  she  is  holding  in  her  hand — with  a  sudden  thought.]  I 
have  it !  But  don't  think  that  I'm  joking.  And  we'll  have  to 
do  without  scissors  !  [She  tears  one  of  the  roses  from  the  hat]  I 
don't  know  whether  there  are  just  twenty —  [Holding  out  one 
of  the  roses  to  him.]  Well  ^  This  rose  has  the  merit  of  being  just 
as  real  as  the  sentiment  of  which  we  were  speaking  before — and 
just  as  unfading. 

Strubel.  Is  this — to  be — my  punishment  .'*  [The  Princess 
smilingly  shakes  her  head.]  Or  does  your  Highness  mean  by  it 
that  only  the  Unreal  never  fades  ? 

The  Princess.  That's  exactly  what  I  mean — because  the 
Unreal  must  always  dwell  in  the  imagination. 

Strubel.  So  that's  it !  Just  as  it  is  only  the  far-away  prin- 
cesses who  are  always  near  to  us. 

Frau  V.  Brook.  Permit  me  to  remark.  Your  Highness — 
that  it  is  high  time 

The  Princess.  As  you  see,  those  who  are  near  must  hurry 
away.     [Offering  him  the  rose  again.]     Well } 

Strubel.  [Is  about  to  take  it,  hut  lets  his  hand  fall.]  With 
the  far-away  princess  there — [pointing  dovm]  it  would  have  been 
in  harmony,  but  with  the —  [Shakes  his  head,  then  softly  and 
vnth  emotion.]    No,  thanks — I'd  rather  not. 

[He  hows  and  goes  out. 

The    Princess.     [Smiling  pensively,   throws  away   the   arti- 


THE    FAR-AWAY    PRINCESS  391 

jicial  flower.]  I'm  going  to  ask  my  fiance  to  let  me  send  him  a 
rose. 

Frau  v.  Brook.  Your  Highness,  I  am  very  much — sur- 
prised! 

The  Princess.     Well,  I  told  you  that  I  wasn't  sleepy. 

CURTAIN 


THE  STRONGER 

BY 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG 


AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

August  Strindberg,  Sweden's  foremost  dramatist,  was  born 
at  Stockholm  in  1849.  He  attended  the  University  of  Upsala 
but  did  not  graduate.  In  1872  he  wrote  Master  Olaf,  which 
was  for  six  years  steadily  refused  by  managers.  When  it  did 
appear  it  inaugurated  the  Swedish  dramatic  renascence.  By 
turns  Strindberg  was  schoolmaster,  journalist,  dramatist,  writer 
of  scientific  and  political  treatises,  and  writer  of  short  stories. 
In  1883  he  left  Sweden  and  travelled  extensively  in  Denmark, 
Germany,  France,  and  Italy.     He  died  in  1912. 

As  a  dramatist  Strindberg's  chief  strength  lies  not  so  much 
in  dramatic  technique  as  it  does  in  his  trenchant  and  searching 
power  of  analysis  of  the  human  mind.  His  chief  plays  are  very 
exact  and  narrow  views  of  the  feminine  soul.  Some  of  his  own 
domestic  bitterness  finds  expression  in  the  feminine  studies  in 
his  plays.  He  is  very  fond  of  showing  the  power  of  one  char- 
acter over  another. 

His  important  one-act  plays  are  The  Outlaw,  Countess  Julie, 
Creditors,  Pariah,  Facing  Death,  and  The  Stronger.  The  Stronger 
has  a  dramatic  intensity  that  few  plays  possess.  Though  but 
one  character  speaks,  the  souls  of  three  are  skiKully  laid  bare. 


PERSONS 

Mrs.  X.,  an  actress,  married 
Miss  Y.,  an  actress ,  unmarried 


THE  STRONGER* 

SCENE :  A  corner  of  a  ladies'  restaurant ;  two  small  tables  of  cast- 
iron,  a  sofa  covered  with  red  plush,  and  a  few  chairs. 

Mrs.  X.  enters,  dressed  in  hat  and  vnnter  coat,  and  carrying  a 
pretty  Japanese  basket  on  her  arm. 

Miss  Y.  has  in  front  of  her  a  partly  emptied  bottle  of  beer  ;  she  is 
reading  an  illustrated  weekly,  and  every  now  and  then  she  ex- 
changes it  for  a  new  one. 

Mrs.  X.     Well,  how  do,  Millie!    Here  you  are  sitting  on 
Christmas  Eve,  as  lonely  as  a  poor  bachelor. 

Miss  Y.  looks  up  from  the  paper  for  a  moment^  nods,  and 
resumes  her  reading. 
Mrs.  X.  Really,  I  feel  sorry  to  find  you  like  this — alone — 
alone  in  a  restaurant,  and  on  Christmas  Eve  of  all  times.  It 
makes  me  as  sad  as  when  I  saw  a  wedding  party  at  Paris  once  in 
a  restaurant — the  bride  was  reading  a  comic  paper  and  the 
groom  was  playing  billiards  with  the  witnesses.  Ugh,  when  it 
begins  that  way,  I  thought,  how  will  it  end  ?  Think  of  it,  play- 
ing billiards  on  his  wedding  day !  Yes,  and  you're  going  to  say 
that  she  was  reading  a  comic  paper — that's  a  different  case,  my 
dear. 

[A  waitress  brings  a  cup  of  chocolate,  places  it  before  Mrs. 
X-,  and  disappears  again. 
Mrs.  X.     [Sips  a  few  spoonfuls  ;  opens  the  basket  and  displays 
a  number  of  Christmas  presents.]     See  what  I've  bought  for  my 

*  Copyright,  1912,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     All  rights  reserved. 

397 


398  AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

tots  [Picks  up  a  doll.]  What  do  you  think  of  this?  Lisa  is 
to  have  it.  She  can  roll  her  eyes  and  twist  her  head,  do  you 
see  ?     Fine,  is  it  not  ?     And  here's  a  cork  pistol  for  Carl. 

[Loads  the  pistol  and  pops  it  at  Miss  Y.  Miss  Y.  starts 
as  if  frightened. 
Mrs.  X.  Did  I  scare  you?  Why,  you  didn't  fear  I  was 
going  to  shoot  you,  did  you  ?  Really,  I  didn't  think  you  could 
believe  that  of  me.  If  you  were  to  shoot  me — well,  that  wouldn't 
surprise  me  the  least.  I've  got  in  your  way  once,  and  I  know 
you'll  never  forget  it — but  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  still  think  I 
intrigued  you  away  from  the  Royal  Theatre,  and  I  didn't  do 
anything  of  the  kind — although  you  think  so.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  what  I  say,  of  course — you  believe  it  was  I  just  the 
same.  [Pulls  out  a  pair  of  embroidered  slippers.]  Well,  these  are 
for  my  hubby — tulips — I've  embroidered  them  myself.  H'm  ! 
— I  hate  tulips — and  he  must  have  them  on  everything. 

[Miss  Y.  looks  up  from  the  paper  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  sarcasm  and  curiosity. 
Mrs.  X.     [Puts  a  hand  in  each  slipper.]     Just  see  what  small 
feet  Bob  has.     See?     And  you  should  see  him  walk — elegant! 
Of  course,  you've  never  seen  him  in  slippers. 
[Miss  Y.  laughs  aloud. 
Mrs.  X.     Look  here — here  he  comes. 

[Makes  the  slippers  walk  across  the  table.  Miss  Y.  laughs 
again. 
Mrs.  X.  Then  he  gets  angry,  and  he  stamps  his  foot  just 
like  this:  "Blame  that  cook  who  can't  learn  how  to  make  coffee.'* 
Or:  "The  idiot — now  that  girl  has  forgotten  to  fix  my  study 
lamp  again."  Then  there  is  a  draught  through  the  floor  and 
his  feet  get  cold.  "Gee,  but  it's  freezing,  and  those  blanked 
idiots  don't  even  know  enough  to  keep  the  house  warm." 

[She  rubs  the  sole  of  one  slipper  against  the  instep  of  the 
other.     Miss  Y.  breaks  into  prolonged  laughter. 
Mrs.  X.     And  then  he  comes  home  and  has  to  hunt  for  his 


THE    STRONGER  Sflij? 

slippei'S — Mary  has  pushed  them  under  the  bureau.  Well,  per- 
haps it  is  not  right  to  be  making  fun  of  one's  own  husband. 
He's  pretty  good  for  all  that — a  real  dear  little  hubby,  that's 
what  he  is.  You  should  have  such  a  husband — what  are  you 
laughing  at?  Can't  you  tell.?  Then,  you  see,  I  know  he  as 
faithful.  Yes,  I  know,  for  he  has  told  me  himself — what  in  the 
world  makes  you  giggle  like  that.''  That  nasty  Betty  tried  to 
get  him  away  from  me  while  I  was  on  the  road.  Can  you  think 
of  anything  more  infamous  ?  [Pause.]  But  I'd  have  scratched 
the  eyes  out  of  her  face,  that's  what  I'd  have  done,  if  I  had  been 
at  home  when  she  tried  it.  [Pause.]  I'm  glad  Bob  told  me  all 
about  it,  so  I  didn't  have  to  hear  it  first  from  somebody  else. 
[Pau^e.]  And,  just  think  of  it,  Betty  was  not  the  only  one !  I 
don't  know  why  it  is,  but  all  women  seem  to  be  crazy  after  my 
husband.  It  must  be  because  they  imagine  his  government 
position  gives  him  something  to  say  about  the  engagements. 
Perhaps  you've  tried  it  yourself — ^you  may  have  set  your  traps 
for  him,  too  ?  Yes,  I  don't  trust  you  very  far — but  I  know  he 
never  cared  for  you — and  then  I  have  been  thinking  you  rather 
had  a  grudge  against  him. 

[Pav^e.     They  look  at  each  other  in  an  embarrassed  manner, 

Mrs.  X.  Amelia,  spend  the  evening  with  us,  won't  you? 
Just  to  show  that  you  are  not  angry — not  with  me,  at  least.  I 
cannot  tell  exactly  why,  but  it  seems  so  awfully  unpleasant  to 
have  you — you — for  an  enemy.  Perhaps  because  I  got  in  your 
way  that  time  [rallentando]  or — ^I  don't  know — really,  I  don't 

know  at  all 

[Pause.     Miss  Y.  gazes  searchingly  at  Mrs.  X. 

Mrs.  X.  [Thoughtfully.]  It  was  so  peculiar,  the  way  our 
acquaintance — why,  I  was  afraid  of  you  when  I  first  met  you; 
so  afraid  that  I  did  not  dare  to  let  you  out  of  sight.  It  didn't 
matter  where  I  tried  to  go — I  always  found  myself  near  you.  I 
didn't  have  the  courage  to  be  your  enemy — ^and  so  I  became  your 
friend.     But  there  was  always  something  discordant  in  the  air 


400  AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

when  you  called  at  our  home,  for  I  saw  that  my  husband  didn't 
like  you — and  it  annoyed  me — just  as  it  does  when  a  dress 
won't  fit.  I've  tried  my  very  best  to  make  him  appear  friendly 
to  you  at  least,  but  I  couldn't  move  him — not  until  you  were 
engaged.  Then  you  two  became  such  fast  friends  that  it  almost 
looked  as  if  you  had  not  dared  to  show  your  real  feelings  before, 
when  it  was  not  safe — and  later — let  me  see,  now  !  I  didn't  get 
jealous — strange,  was  it  not.''  And  I  remember  the  baptism — 
you  were  acting  as  godmother,  and  I  made  him  kiss  you — and 
he  did,  but  both  of  you  looked  terribly  embarrassed — that  is,  I 
didn't  think  of  it  then — or  afterwards,  even — I  never  thought  of 
it — till — now!  [Rises  impulsively.]  Why  don't  you  say  some- 
thing? You  have  not  uttered  a  single  word  all  this  time. 
You've  just  let  me  go  on  talking.  You've  been  sitting  there 
staring  at  me  only,  and  your  eyes  have  drawn  out  of  me  all 
these  thoughts  which  were  lying  in  me  like  silk  in  a  cocoon — 
thoughts — bad  thoughts  maybe — let  me  think.  Why  did  you 
break  your  engagement?  Why  have  you  never  called  on  us 
afterward  ?  Why  don't  you  want  to  be  with  us  to-night  ? 
[Miss  Y.  makes  a  motion  as  if  intending  to  speak, 
Mrs.  X.  No,  you  don't  need  to  say  anything  at  all.  All  is 
clear  to  me  now.  So,  that's  the  reason  of  it  all.  Yes,  yes ! 
Everything  fits  together  now.  Shame  on  you  !  I  don't  want  to 
sit  at  the  same  table  with  you.[Moves  her  things  to  another  table.] 
That's  why  I  must  put  those  hateful  tulips  on  his  slippers — be- 
cause you  love  them.  [Throws  the  slippers  on  the  floor.]  That's 
why  we  have  to  spend  the  summer  in  the  mountains — because 
you  can't  bear  the  salt  smell  of  the  ocean;  that's  why  my  boy 
had  to  be  called  Eskil — because  that  was  your  father's  name; 
that's  why  I  had  to  wear  your  color,  and  read  your  books,  and 
eat  your  favorite  dishes,  and  drink  your  drinks — this  chocolate, 
for  instance;  that's  why — great  heavens ! — it's  terrible  to  think 
of  it — it's  terrible  !  Everything  was  forced  on  me  by  you — even 
your  passions.     Your  soul  bored  itself  into  mine  as  a  worm  into 


THE    STRONGER  401 

an  apple,  and  it  ate  and  ate  and  burrowed  and  burrowed,  till 
nothing  was  left  but  the  outside  shell  and  a  little  black  dust.  I 
wanted  to  run  away  from  you,  but  I  couldn't.  You  were  always 
on  hand  like  a  snake,  with  your  black  eyes,  to  charm  me — I  felt 
how  my  wings  beat  the  air  only  to  drag  me  down — I  was  in  the 
water  with  my  feet  tied  together,  and  the  harder  I  worked  with 
my  arms,  the  further  down  I  went — down,  down,  till  I  sank  to 
the  bottom,  where  you  lay  in  wait  like  a  monster  crab  to  catch 
me  with  your  claws — and  now  I'm  there !  Shame  on  you ! 
How  I  hate  you,  hate  you,  hate  you !  But  you,  you  just  sit 
there,  silent  and  calm  and  indifferent,  whether  the  moon  is  new 
or  full;  whether  it's  Christmas  or  mid-summer;  whether  other 
people  are  happy  or  unhappy.  You  are  incapable  of  hatred 
and  you  don't  know  how  to  love.  As  a  cat  in  front  of  a  mouse- 
hole,  you  are  sitting  there.  You  can't  drag  your  prey  out,  and 
you  can't  pursue  it,  but  you  can  outwait  it.  Here  you  sit  in 
this  corner — do  you  know  they've  nicknamed  it  "the  mouse- 
trap" on  your  account.'^  Here  you  read  the  papers  to  see  if 
anybody  is  in  trouble,  or  if  anybody  is  about  to  be  discharged 
from  the  theatre.  Here  you  watch  your  victims  and  calculate 
your  chances  and  take  your  tributes.  Poor  Amelia !  Do  you 
know,  I  pity  you  all  the  same,  for  I  know  you  are  unhappy — 
unhappy  as  one  who  has  been  wounded,  and  malicious  because 
you  are  wounded.  I  ought  to  be  angry  with  you,  but  really  I 
can't — ^you  are  so  small,  after  all — and  as  to  Bob,  why,  that 
does  not  bother  me  in  the  least.  What  does  it  matter  to  me, 
anyhow  ?  If  you  or  somebody  else  taught  me  to  drink  chocolate 
— what  of  that?  [Takes  a  spoonful  of  chocolate;  then,  senten- 
tiously.]  They  say  chocolate  is  very  wholesome.  And  if  I  have 
learned  from  you  how  to  dress — tant  mieux ! — it  has  only  given 
me  a  stronger  hold  on  my  husband — and  you  have  lost  where  I 
have  gained.  Yes,  judging  by  several  signs,  I  think  you  have 
lost  him  abeady.  Of  course,  you  meant  me  to  break  with  him 
you  did,  and  as  you  are  now  regretting — but,  you  see,  / 


402  AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

never  would  do  that.  It  wouldn't  do  to  be  narrow-minded, 
you  know.  And  why  should  I  take  only  what  nobody  else 
wants  ?  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  am  the  stronger  now.  You  never 
got  anything  from  me;  you  merely  gave — and  thus  happened  to 
me  what  happened  to  the  thief — I  had  what  you  missed  when 
you  woke  up.  How  explain  in  any  other  way  that,  in  your  hand, 
everything  proved  worthless  and  useless  ?  You  were  never  able 
to  keep  a  man's  love,  in  spite  of  your  tulips  and  your  passions — 
and  I  could;  you  could  never  learn  the  art  of  living  from  the 
books — as  I  learned  it;  you  bore  no  little  Eskil,  although  that 
was  your  father's  name.  And  why  do  you  keep  silent  always 
and  everjrwhere — silent,  ever  silent?  I  used  to  think  it  was 
because  you  were  so  strong;  and  maybe  the  simple  truth  was 
you  never  had  anything  to  say — because  you  were  unable  to 
think !  [Rises  and  picks  up  the  slippers.]  I'm  going  home  now 
— I'll  take  the  tulips  with  me — your  tulips.  You  couldn't  learn 
anything  from  others;  you  couldn't  bend — and  so  you  broke  like 
a  dry  stem — and  I  didn't.  Thank  you,  Amelia,  for  all  your  in- 
structions. I  thank  you  that  you  have  taught  me  how  to  love 
my  husband.    Now  I'm  going  home — to  him !  [Exit. 

CURTAIN 


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1922. 
Shay,  Frank,  and  Loving,  Pierre,  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act 

Plays.     Stewart  and  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,  1920. 
Wisconsin  Plays,  First  and  Second  Series.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New 

York  City,  1914,  1918. 
Smith,  Alice  M.,  Short  Plays  by  Representative  Authors.     The 

Macmillan  Company,  New  York  City,  1921. 
A  Volume  of  Plays  from  the  Drama,  59  East  Van  Buren  Street, 

Chicago,  is  announced  for  1922. 
A  Volume  of  One-Act  Plays  from  the  work  of  Professor  Franz 

Rickaby,  of  the  University  of  North  Dakota,  is  under  way. 
A  Volume  of  One-Act  Plays,  from  the  work  of  Professor  Freder- 
ick H.  Koch,  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  is  under 

way. 

405 


406  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


LISTS  OF  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

Bibliography  of  Published  Plays  Available  in  English.  World 
Drama  Promoters,  La  Jolla,  California. 

Cheney,  Sheldon,  The  Art  Theatre.  (Appendix:  Plays  Produced 
at  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre,  Detroit.)  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  New- 
York,  1917. 

Clapp,  John  Mantel,  Plays  for  Amateurs.  Bulletin  of  The 
Drama  League  of  America,  Chicago,  1915. 

Clark,  Barrett  Harper,  How  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays.  Little, 
Brown  and  Company,  Boston,  1917. 

Dickinson,  Thomas  H.,  The  Insurgent  Theatre.  (Appendix: 
List  of  Plays  Produced  by  Little  Theatres.)  B.  W.  Huebsch, 
New  York,  1917. 

Drummond,  Alex.  M.,  JFJfty.One-Act  Plays.  Quarterly  Journal 
of  Public  Speaking,  Vol.  I,  p.  234,  1915. 

Drummond,  Alex.  M.,  One-Act  Plays  for  Schools  and  Colleges. 
Education,  Vol.  4,  p.  372,  1918. 

Faxon,  F.  W.,  Dramatic  Index.  Published  from  year  to  year, 
Boston. 

French,  Samuel,  Guide  to  Selecting  Plays.  Catalogues,  etc. 
Samuel  French,  publisher.  New  York. 

Johnson,  Gertrude,  Choosing  a  Play.  Lists  of  various  types  of 
one-act  plays  in  the  Appendix.  The  Century  Company,  New 
York,  1920. 

Kaplan,  Samuel,  Actable  One-Act  Plays.  Chicago  Public  Li- 
brary, Chicago,  1916. 

Koch,  Frederick  H.,  Community  Drama  Service.  A  select  list  of 
one-act  plays.  Extension  Series,  Number  36,  in  University  of 
North  Carolina  Record,  Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina,  1920. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland,  The  Technique  of  the  One- Act  Play  (Appendix: 
Contemporary  One- Act  Plays).  John  W.  Luce  and  Company, 
Boston,  1918. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland,  The  One- Act  Play  in  Colleges  and  High  Schools. 
A  select  list  of  fifty  one-act  plays.  Bulletin  of  Extension  Divi- 
sion of  University  of  Utah,  Series  No.  2,  Vol.  10,  No.  16,  Salt 
Lake  City,  1920. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland,  One  Hundred  Representative  One- Act  Plays,  in 
The  Drama,  April,  1921,  Vol.  11,  No.  7,  Chicago. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  407 

Lewis,  B.  Roland.  Bulletin  on  the  One-Act  Play,  prepared  for 
The  Drama  League  of  America.  Contains  a  selected  list  of 
one  hmidred  and  fifty  one-act  plays,  with  analyses,  etc.  The 
Drama  League  of  America,  Chicago,  Illinois,  1921. 

McFadden,  E.  A.,  Selected  List  of  Plays  for  Amateurs,  113  Lake 
View  Avenue,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  1920. 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy,  The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United 
States  (Appendix:  List  of  Plays  Produced  in  Little  Theatres). 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1917. 

Mayorga,  Margaret  Gardner,  Representative  One-Act  Plays  by 
American  Authors  (Appendix:  Selective  List  of  One- Act  Plays 
by  American  Authors).  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Boston, 
1919. 

Merry,  Glenn  Newton,  College  Plays.  University  of  Iowa,  Iowa 
City,  Iowa,  1919. 

Riley,  Alice  C.  D.,  The  One-Act  Play— Study  Course.  Three 
issues  (February,  March,  April)  of  The  Drama  League  Bulle- 
tin, 1918,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Riley,  Ruth,  Plays  and  Recitations,  Extension  Division  Record, 
Vol.  2,  No.  2,  November,  1920.  University  of  Florida, 
Gainesville,  Florida. 

Selected  List  of  Christmas  Plays.  Drama  League  Calendar,  No- 
vember 15,  1918,  New  York. 

Selected  List  of  Patriotic  Plays  and  Pageants  Suitable  for  Ama- 
teurs.    Drama  League  Calendar,  October  1,  1918,  New  York. 

Selected  List  of  Plays  for  Amateurs.  The  Drama  League,  Bos- 
ton.    Also  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company,  New  York,  1917. 

Shay,  Frank,  Play  List,  Winter,  1921.  Frank  Shay,  4  Christo- 
pher Street,  New  York. 

Shay,  Frank,  and  Loving,  Pierre,  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act 
Plays  (Appendix:  The  Plays  of  the  Little  Theatre).  Stewart  & 
Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,  1920. 

Stratton,  Clarence,  Two  Hundred  Plays  Suitable  for  Amateurs. 
One  hundred  of  them  are  one-act  plays.  St.  Louis,  Missouri, 
1920.     The  Drama  Shop,  7  East  42d  Street,  New  York. 

Stratton,  Clarence,  Produxiing  in  Little  Theatres  (Appendix  con- 
tains a  revised  list  of  one-act  plays) .  Henry  Holt  &  Company, 
New  York  City,  1921. 

Swartout,  Norman  Lee,  One  Hundred  and  One  Good  Plays.  Sum- 
mit, New  Jersey,  1920. 


408  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  REFERENCE  ON  THE   ONE-ACT 

PLAY 

Andrews,  Charlton,  The  Technique  of  Play  Writing,  Chapter 
XVIII.  Home  Correspondence  School,  Springfield,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

Cannon,  Fanny,  Writing  and  Selling  a  Play,  Chapter  XXH. 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1915. 

Cohen,  Helen  Louise,  One-Act  Plays  by  Modern  Authors,  Intro- 
duction.    Harcourt,  Brace  and  Company,  New  York,  1921. 

Corbin,  John,  The  One-Act  Play,  in  the  New  York  Times,  May, 
1918.     Vol.  IV,  p.  8,  col.  1. 

Eaton,  Walter  P.,  Washington  Square  Plays,  Introduction. 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company,  Garden  City,  New  York,  1917. 

Gibbs,  Clayton  E.,  The  One-Ad  Play,  in  The  Theatre,  Vol. 
XXIII,  pp.  143-156,  March,  1916. 

Goodman,  Edward,  Why  the  One- Act  Play?,  in  The  Theatre, 
Vol.  XXV,  p.  327,  June,  1917. 

Gregory,  Lady  Augusta,  Our  Irish  Theatre.  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  New  York,  1913. 

Hamilton  Clayton,  The  One- Act  Play  in  America,  in  The  Book- 
man, April,  1913.  Appears  as  Chapter  XXH  in  Studies  in 
Stagecraft,  Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1914. 

Johnson,  Gertrude,  Choosing  a  Play,  Chapter  HI,  Why  the  One- 
Act  Play?     The  Century  Company,  New  York,  1920. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland,  The  Technique  of  the  One-Act  Play.  John 
W.  Luce  &  Company,  Boston,  1918. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland,  The  One-Act  Play  in  Colleges  and  High  Schools, 
Bulletin  of  the  University  of  Utah,  Extension  Series  No.  2, 
Vol.  X,  No.  16,  1920.  Extension  Division,  University  of 
Utah,  Salt  Lake  City. 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy,  The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United 
States,  some  interesting  comments  on  various  one-act  plays. 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1917. 

Middleton,  George,  Tradition  and  Other  One-Act  Plays,  Intro- 
duction, 1913;  Embers,  Etc.,  Introduction,  1911;  Possession, 
Etc.,  Introduction,  1915.  All  published  by  Henry  Holt  & 
Company,  New  York. 

Middleton,  George,  The  Neglected  One- Act  Play,  in  The  Dramatic 
Mirror,  January  31,  1913,  pp.  13-14,  New  York. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  409 

Moses,  Montrose  J.,  The  American  Dramatist,  comment  on  the 

one-act  play.     Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Boston,  1917. 
Neal,  Robert  Wilson,  Short  Stories  in  the  Making,  Chapter  I. 

Oxford  University  Press,  New  York,  1914. 
Page,   Brett,    Writing  for   Vaudeville.     Home   Correspondence 

School,  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  1915. 
Poole's  Index,  for  articles  on  the  one-act  play  in  the  magazines. 
The  Reader  s  Gttide  to  Periodical  Literature  for  articles  on  the 

one-act  play  in  the  magazines. 
Schnitzler,  Arthur,  Comedies  of  Words,  Introduction  by  Pierre 

Loving.     Stewart  &  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,  1917. 
Underhill,  John  Garrett,   The  One-Act  Play  in  Spain,  in   The 

Drama :  A  Qvurterly  Review,  February,  1917. 
Wilde,  Percival,  Confessional,  and  Other  One-Act  Plays,  Preface. 

Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1916. 
The  several  volumes  dealing  with  the  short  story  are  suggested 

as  collateral  study:  Pitkin,  Neal,  Williams,  Grabo,  Baker, 

Esenwein,    Notestein    and    Dunn,   Canby,  Albright,   Smith, 

Cross,  Barrett,  Mathews,  Pain,  Gerwig. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY  ON  HOW  TO  PRODUCE  PLAYS 

Beegle,  Mary  Porter,  and  Crawford,  Jack,  Community  Drama 
and  Pageantry.  The  Appendices  in  this  volume  contain  ex- 
cellent bibliographies  on  almost  every  aspect  of  dramatic  pro- 
duction. It  is  a  most  valuable  work.  Yale  University  Press, 
New  Haven,  1917. 

Chubb,  Percival,  Festivals  and  Plays.  Harper  and  Brothers, 
New  York,  1912. 

Clark,  Barrett  H.,  How  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays.  Little, 
Brown  &  Company,  Boston,  1917. 

Crampton,  C.  Ward,  Folk  Dance  Book.  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Com- 
pany, New  York,  1909. 

Hughes,  Talbot,  Dress  Designs.  The  Macmillan  Company,  New 
York,  1913. 

Johnson,  Gertrude,  Choosing  a  Play.  The  Century  Company, 
New  York,  1920. 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy,  Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs. 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1915. 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy,  How  to  Produce  Children's  Plays, 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1915. 


410  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Rath,  Emil,  Esthetic  Dancing.     A.  S.  Barnes  &  Company,  New 

York,  1914. 
Rhead,  G.  N.,  Chats  on  Costutne,  or  Treatment  of  Draperies  in 

Art.     F.  A.  Stokes  Company,  New  York,  1906. 
Stratton,  Clarence,  Producing  in  the  Little  Theatres.     Henry  Holt 

&  Company,  New  York,  1921. 
Stratton,  Clarence,  Public  Speaking,  has  a  chapter  on  Dramatics. 

Henry  Holt  &  Company,  New  York,  1920. 
Taylor,  Emerson,  Practical  Stage  Directing  for  Amateurs.     E.  P. 

Dutton  &  Company,  New  York,  1916. 
Waugh,  Frank  A.,  Outdoor  Theatres.    Richard  G.  Badger,  Bos- 
ton, 1917. 
Young,  James,  Making  Up.     M.  Witmark  &  Sons,  144  West 

37th  Street,  New  York. 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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